


Tearing through the Pages and the Ink

by musiclvr1112



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: A LOT of Angst, Aged-Up Character(s), Angst, But also, Enjoy!, Explicit Language, Fluff and Angst, I also don't have the clearest of plans, I'll add more as I think of them, Lesbians!, Multi, Slow Burn, So much angst, also songs, and there will be an apt song at the beginning of every chapter, because i get really inspired by music, but i mean what do you expect look at chloe, but mostly Nath narrated, chapters may get longer as we go, i kinda just like to cut them off where it feels right, it's gonna be a ride, just a little, like really, like they're 17 I think, lol oops, love square, maybe 18, mostly Chloe angst, not sure, not sure yet - Freeform, occasionally, so most titles will be lyrics, there might be more tags i'm missing, there will be a small splash of, this will take a while, very Chloe centered, yay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-13
Updated: 2018-04-21
Packaged: 2018-08-08 12:16:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 56,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7757527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musiclvr1112/pseuds/musiclvr1112
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by @piebsa ( http://piebsa.tumblr.com/ )'s prompt:<br/>Chloe isn’t used to getting B’s at school (even if it was a B+) and, really, that flower drawing deserved an A++. Basically; Chloe gets a B+ in Arts and reluctantly asks Nathanael for his help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hate is a strong word...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’ll buy my way to talk to God so he can live with what I’m not.” –Innerpartysystem, Don’t Stop.

This wasn’t the first time Chloé had had a faceoff with Madame Kahlo. The art teacher was the only person at the school who refused to bend to her will, which meant that Chloé had actually had to try to get a good grade in that class. Whatever, not like there was anything she couldn’t do of course. But when Madame Kahlo handed back her very detailed _very good_ oil pastel lily with yet another B on it, Chloé was furious.

Once the final bell rang, Chloé marched up to the teacher’s desk—the sound of her heels clicking with every step giving her power—and slammed her paper down upon its surface. Madame Kahlo didn’t even flinch. In fact, that woman had the audacity to raise her index finger in a silent gesture telling Chloé to _wait_. Just who did she think she was? The queen of England!? Hah, as if even the queen would dare disrespect her in such a manner. Nonetheless, Chloé waited, remembering her father’s sound advice that one must choose their battles.

Finally the teacher set down her pencil and looked up to meet Chloé’s furious gaze. “Yes Chloé? What is it?”

“My oil pastel. I demand to know why you’ve given it a B and not an A.”

Staying perfectly calm, feigning obliviousness to Chloé’s attitude, she replied, “There’s a note attached that explains the grades.” Madame Kahlo flipped to the grading page and held it out for Chloé to see. “Here I noted that while it was good, you simply did not take full advantage of the spectrum of colors. Just like the rest of your work, you show great ability, but you lack the touch with color that you need to achieve an A.”

Chloé grumbled. “This is ridiculous! You’re holding me up to impossible standards. I don’t plan on being an artist someday!”

“If you don’t plan on being an artist, then a B is a very good grade.”

“No! I deserve an A! I worked very hard on that piece! I think my daddy will agree with me,” Chloé threatened pulling out her cell phone. Madame Kahlo sighed.

“Chloé, your threats won’t work on me. I have tenure and I highly doubt the mayor will go so far as to get rid of the entire art department just to get me fired. Sorry, but you’re going to have to earn an A the old fashioned way.” Perhaps the thing that Chloé hated most about Madame Kahlo was the fact that she wasn’t afraid to look her straight in the eye when she challenged her. If there was anything she hated, it was people who weren’t afraid of her. She couldn’t control those people.

Just like she couldn’t control Madame Kahlo.

With an angry grumble, Chloé snatched her underappreciated piece of work off the desk and stalked away with her head held high. Madame Kahlo may be able to take away her good grades, but she couldn’t take her pride.

* * *

If Nathaniel had been told that morning that later that day he would be showing up at Chloé Bourgeois’ hotel suite to tutor her, he would have scoffed at the ridiculous notion. _I hate Chloé Bourgeois,_ he would have said. _I can’t stand being in the same room with her, let alone speaking to her. You would have to pay me quite a large sum of money to get me to do that._ Yet here he was, walking down the ornately decorated red hall to her suite without promise of an extremely large amount of money.

But he had to if he wanted to keep his internship with Théo. Nathaniel was the one lucky artist that Théo—otherwise known as the greatest artist currently in Paris—was willing to accept as his underling. So far it had been amazing working side by side with such a talented man. And that day Nathaniel had been really excited to start working on a big commission they had just received.

…And then the mayor called. Apparently Chloé needed a tutor for her art class. Théo’s initial response was to point the mayor in the direction of some great tutors he knew, but the man would have none of that. He needed the best artist in Paris for his little Chloé. And when it was a direct request from the mayor, he had no choice but to accept.

The only problem was that their commissioner would be extremely angry if they fell behind schedule. And since Théo had to be the one in charge of the commission, that left poor Nathaniel to take care of Chloé.

So no, he wasn’t being paid to do this. But the prospect of losing his internship just because he refused to talk to his school bully seemed childish as well as depressing. _Just suck it up Nath_ , he told himself. Yes she was arrogant and rude and obnoxious and annoying and everything else wrong with the world, but Nathaniel knew he had the power to overcome that. To be strong in the face of adversity.

That strength was gone the second he heard her shrill voice carrying its way through the thick door. “YOU WHAT!?” Nathaniel felt his face immediately drain of the color that it had. If she was already in a bad mood, he didn’t stand a chance. Maybe he could just turn and walk the other way— “What do you mean you sent a replacement!? Do you know who I am!? I could ruin you if I wanted!!”  _That must be Théo on the phone._ Figuring he’d better save his boss if he could, Nathaniel forced himself to turn back around and walk the rest of the way down the hall to her door. With a deep breath, he centered himself. _She’s just a simple bully. That’s all. It doesn’t matter if she’s the mayor’s daughter and practically evil incarnate. Underneath that she’s just a normal girl with a normal life. Who also happens to be the only thing that ever pushed you to evildoing, but still. Just a girl. She’s just a girl._

He knocked on the door. Chloé’s voice cut short in the midst of her ranting, the sudden silence a blessing to his ears. A moment later, the door swung open to reveal the woman of the hour.

Chloé Bourgeois stood in her full glory in black stilettos, white jeans, her bedazzled golden belt, her black and white striped shirt, and her loose yellow sweater that hung down to mid-thigh. Though subtle, Nathaniel remembered greatly appreciating the change to her outfit when it had appeared last summer. He thought the longer sweater complimented her tall thin figure better for sure. He was also glad she had gotten over that dumb habit of wearing sunglasses even when they were completely unnecessary.

He didn’t see her for long however as a mere two seconds after the door had been opened, it was being slammed in his face.

“HIM!?” He could hear from the other side of the door. “I ORDERED THE BEST ARTIST IN PARIS AND YOU SENT ME HIM!?” Any pleasant thoughts he might have had about Chloé were instantly purged from his mind.

Nearly all of his life, Nathaniel had been rather timid. He didn’t speak up often and when he did he was rather quiet about it. People like Chloé had been walking all over him for years and for the most part, he’d been able to live with it and silently go on. But hearing his classmate—the girl who needed help in _his subject_ —disparage him to his boss while he was _right here_ pushed him over the edge.

Something in Nathaniel _snapped_.

* * *

Chloé’s ranting was interrupted with yet another knock at the door. Still on the phone with Théo, she threw the door open ready to chew that stupid art boy’s head off. Was slamming the door in his face not enough to get the message across?

As soon as she saw him however, the words died on her tongue.

Nothing had really changed from the moment before. It was still the same boy from her class who stood in front of her wearing dumb hipster chic with converse, jeans, a T-shirt, a loose long sleeve over shirt, and of course the two piercings in his right ear (one in the left) and the piece of metal stuck through his eyebrow. The boy was a walking Hot Topic ad just like always.

But something had _changed_.

The eyes. It was the eyes. Of course she’d always noticed his pretty eyes. He was one of the only people she’d ever seen with prettier eyes than her—not that she’d ever admit that. But for once those teal orbs weren’t directed at the ground or somewhere else in fear. They were looking straight at her.

He wasn’t afraid of her.

Suddenly Chloé was 14 again. She was wrenched back into the one time when those eyes hadn’t feared her.

When they’d wanted to kill her.

“You know, it’s rude to slam the door in someone’s face like that,” he said, thankfully snapping her out of her thoughts. “Especially when they’re here to help you.”

Théo, who could apparently hear his lackey from the other end, decided to chip in. “I really couldn’t send you a better tutor since he’s actually worked with your art teacher.” Chloé’s eyes narrowed at the artist. He didn’t back down. Those teal eyes stared back, gaze more solid than she’d ever seen it before.

She clicked the red button on her phone, closing her call with Théo, all the while maintaining her silent duel with Nathaniel.

“You’re here to help me,” she said flatly.

“Yep.”

“You.”

“Me.” Chloé just stared at him. He eventually made a clicking noise with his tongue and said, “Or I can just leave and you can settle for a C in art.” Her eyes became slits, narrowing even more in anger.

She was really sick of people challenging her.

“Fine,” she growled.

“Fine what?”

That bastard! He was going to make her say it! She stared at him, sending him the most intense glare she could manage, but he remained steady, gaze unwavering.

“Fine, I’ll accept your help. On one condition.” He raised an eyebrow at her, making the light glint off his piercing. “You don’t tell anyone. At all. Ever.”

“Sounds good. Can I come in?”

“You promise not to tell anyone?”

“Not a soul.”

“You _promise_.”

“I _promise_ ,” he replied, stifling a laugh.

“And don’t laugh at me!” She exclaimed, her cheeks heating up a little.

“Sorry, you just said one condition,” he said as he brushed past her, making his way into the suite. She (rather forcefully) pushed the door shut behind him with a growl.

This was going to be a very long tutoring session.


	2. Everything is Grey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “And now he’s so devoid of color he don’t know what it means.” –Halsey, Colors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first few chapters are pretty slow but please bear with me, I promise it gets better.

Nathaniel took in his surroundings slowly. He had been in this room once before, but he didn’t really remember most of it since he had been under Papillon’s control.

If he had to choose one word to describe it, it would be…pink. But also exquisite. While Nathaniel probably would have chosen a different and much more varied color scheme, he couldn’t deny that the room displayed professional level design. It did belong to Chloé after all. She’d probably hired the most expensive designer in Paris—maybe even all of Europe—to arrange it.

“When you’re done ogling my decorations, let me know. I’ll be waiting over here.” Nathaniel looked across the room to see Chloé taking a seat at a working desk set up with art supplies. “And for the record, I have a B.”

“What?” he asked as he made his way over to her. He took the adjacent seat and began pulling his own supplies out of his bag.

She pretended not to pay attention to him and checked out her nails as she answered. “You said I could settle for a C in art. I have a B.”

“Oh,” he said, blinking in surprise. “I’m sorry.”

Her eyes flicked up to him in a scowl. “Well you don’t have to look so shocked!”

He chuckled. “Sorry you just don’t strike me as an art person.” Was he imagining the sudden pink in her cheeks?

“People can be artistic without dressing like a hipster you know.”

He shrugged. “Fair enough. So if you have a B, why do you need help?”

“Because I need an A,” she said, her tone indicating that he was stupid for asking. “Why do you look surprised now?” Oh, did he look surprised?

“I guess you also don’t strike me as someone who cares much about their grades,” he replied.

“ _I_ don’t. But everyone else does. If I don’t have good grades it’ll reflect badly on my father.” Nathaniel found himself watching her as she looked to her nails once again. Though she seemed to be focused on admiring her manicure, he was pretty sure her mind was elsewhere. He’d never really thought about what it must be like being the daughter of a political figure. Aside from the money and being able to walk all over people, he supposed there were probably a lot of pressures that came with the position too.

Her bright blue eyes flicked up to him again. “Why are you staring at me like that?”

Oops. Was he staring? His face was definitely flushing to match his red hair.  “L-Like what?” _Damn it Nathaniel! Stuttering? Really!? Just when you finally learned how to stand your ground around her._

“Like I’m…” She trailed off. “Never mind. Teach me how to draw.”

“Right,” he said, remembering the whole reason he was there in the first place. “Well if you have a B then I’m guessing you know how to draw. What are some notes that your teacher has given you?”

Chloé sighed in frustration as she fished out an oil pastel drawing of a flower and slid it over to him. “Madame Kahlo says I ‘lack the touch with color’ or something stupid like that.” Nathaniel hummed as he took in her work. He had to admit, it was a lot better than he’d expected. But…

“I can see what she means.”

“Okay, so what is it? What am I doing wrong?” Nathaniel chewed on the inside of his cheek for a moment while he thought. He decided to pull out a piece of paper to help. “What are you doing?” Chloé asked, obviously impatient.

Electing to not answer her and make her suffer for her impatience, he remained silent as he pulled out his own set of oil pastels and picked out three of them: cyan, magenta, and yellow. He drew one line of each on the paper so that they formed a triangle. “These are your primary colors. That means-,”

“I thought the primary colors were red, yellow, and blue,” she interrupted. He probably would’ve been annoyed at having been cut off if he wasn’t surprised that she even knew _that_. His surprise didn’t go unnoticed (again). “I told you, I have a B! I pay attention in art!” He chuckled again.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Anyway, that is a common misconception. While red yellow and blue will create the other colors, they won’t be as vibrant. But cyan, magenta, and yellow will make all the other colors in their true beauty. Anyway, what I was saying was that since all other colors can be made by mixing these in some way, it’s almost like none of the others exist. But obviously that’s not right because we have other colors like,” he paused to take out a green oil pastel and draw a line in between the yellow and cyan, “green. Right?”

“Duh,” she responded. “And in between magenta and yellow is orange and in between cyan and magenta is purple, I know.”

“But that’s the thing,” Nathaniel said, displaying his entire arsenal of oil pastels to her. “There isn’t _just_ those six colors either. Because while there’s _this_ green,” he pointed to the green line on the paper, “there’s also _this_ green.” He took out a much more yellowish green and put another line on the paper.

“Okay so there are different shades of the colors, is there a point to this?” Nathaniel took a deep breath. He was actually finding it surprisingly easy to stay calm around her. Even if she was being slightly obnoxious, she wasn’t firing insults at him every other sentence, and that made all the difference.

“The point is that in the natural world, things don’t usually display just one shade at a time, and your coloring doesn’t reflect that. Your color choices are very static. In each petal of this lily, there isn’t just one shade of pink. There are several. And Madame Kahlo wants you to show that.” Chloé frowned down at her art work. “Does that…make sense?” He tried very hard to say that in a way that wouldn’t sound like he was insulting her intelligence. He hoped he was successful.

* * *

“Yeah,” Chloé eventually answered. “I guess.” Truth be told, the boy’s explanation made perfect sense. The problem was on Chloé’s end. Not his. But of course she would never admit that out loud. “So how am I supposed to show that?”

“Well, that’s the hard part. Knowing where and how to blend colors is difficult, and it requires a lot of practice. But, that’s why I’m here.”

What happened in that moment was something Chloé thought she would never see. For many nights to come she would dwell on it, remembering it, and wondering why in the world it had happened.

Had he forgotten who she was for those two seconds? Maybe because she had decided to accept his help and in doing so had stopped being mean to him for the time being, he was able to momentarily look past each of their previous interactions. Or maybe he had just gone temporarily insane.

Whatever the reason, Nathaniel smiled at her.

It wasn’t even a sarcastic smirk or a bemused chuckle. It was a genuine smile made with the softest curvature of thin pink lips coupled with a light touch of blush on his pale cheeks and a previously unseen warmth swimming in those beautiful teal eyes.

It was 100% real and it was so new to her that she would see it behind her eyelids every time she blinked for days.

Was she blushing? Please dear God let her not be blushing.

“U-Um yeah. That’s why you’re here, so…so let’s get started,” Chloé stammered out eventually. _Damn it Chloé! Stuttering? Really!?_

Luckily he didn’t seem to notice. “Sure,” he said as he turned to get something out of his bag. “I think we should start with watercolor. It’s a really blendable medium. I think it would be a good way for you to learn to work with colors. And if you have a B in art I’m willing to guess you’ve had some success with it before.”

“Yeah, watercolor sounds good,” she murmured. She began pulling out her own watercolor supplies and putting everything else away. The image of his smile seemed to be burned on her retinas and no matter how hard she tried she couldn’t quite purge it from her thoughts.

“You okay?” he asked, drawing her gaze back to him.

“O-Of course I’m okay!” she snapped, eliciting a flinch in from the boy. A small pang of guilt made itself known before she quickly buried it down with the rest of her emotions. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

And that was that. Chloé had to hold back a sigh of relief as the artist’s expression returned to the indifference she was used to seeing from him. “No reason,” he said, his voice completely monotonous. “Sorry for asking.”

“Whatever,” she replied, her heart rate and complexion finally back to normal. “Just teach me how to color.”

He sighed. “Yes your highness.” She glared at him. Was that fucking sarcasm coming out of the mouth of timid art boy Nathaniel?

“You know, I don’t need your sarcasm,” she remarked venomously. He looked up to meet her glare dead on with one of his own.

“You know, I don’t need your attitude,” he snapped back. “You want to put it away so we can get this tutoring thing over with?” She bit back the insult resting on her tongue and elected to keep her mouth shut, grinding her teeth together in the process. He was right after all. This wasn’t helping her artistic ability, and the sooner they stopped being at each other’s necks the sooner he could leave.

Between gritted teeth she eventually muttered, “Fine,” and turned to focus on the art.


	3. The Lucky One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I've lost it all, I'm just a silhouette; a lifeless face that you'll soon forget.” –Daughter, Youth.

Nathaniel had to admit it. He was impressed. Really, he was. He was impressed with her artistic ability for one—she was surprisingly skilled, especially at drawing flowers, which he could tell were her favorite subject. Her main focus appeared to be lilies—specifically pink ones, he was beginning to notice a trend here—but she also seemed to enjoy the occasional carnation or gladiola. And really, she was quite good at drawing them, especially without a reference of any sort. He briefly wondered if she had a photographic memory like him.

More importantly he was impressed by her ability to press pause on her poisonous tongue and focus on the task at hand. She was surprisingly productive, but even more so responsive. At first he tread lightly, giving her gentle instruction and refraining from voicing the notes that he thought less important. But once an hour had gone by and he still hadn’t received any of the expected backlash, he was able to loosen up a little and more fully direct her. And not only did she accept his direction, she actually listened to it fairly well. Obviously she wasn’t going to completely unlock the secrets to the complex being that was color in one tutoring session, but by the end of it he had no doubt that she would be able to eventually get that A no problem at all.

He was in the middle explaining how she would attain the perfect shade of pink for this particular lily by mixing some purple in when his cell phone buzzed from his pocket.

“Oh sorry, one minute,” he said as he pulled it out. Chloé pulled out her own phone and started doing something on it with an expression of absolute boredom on her face.

“Hello?” he answered, turning away from her. It was his mother, Abigail.

“Nathaniel, where are you? It’s almost dinner time. Did you and Théo get caught up in your work again?” He smiled at the light hearted laugh that tickled her English-tinted voice in that last comment. Neither of his mothers were really the artistic type—at least not in the same way he was. Thus, they often had trouble understanding how he could possibly get so lost in his work as he often did. But even if they didn’t understand it, they accepted it, and he loved them all the more for it.

“Sorry, I’ll be home soon.” He decided to wait on telling her where he actually was, since that would probably elicit a long string of questions from the journalist.

“Well hurry, your mother and I are waiting until you get home to start eating.”

“Yes Mum.” And with that he hung up. When he turned back around to face Chloé, he noticed that she had put her phone down and was staring at the pink lily she had been working on. Those vibrant blue eyes of hers that usually practically glowed in their reflection of the sky had somehow dulled. They appeared almost grey against her bright blue eye shadow—showcased by her half-lidded expression.

Why did she look so sad? It wasn’t a bad piece of art by any means. Despite every rational thought telling him not to, Nathaniel felt the need to reassure her.

“It’s a good lily,” he said. The still glaze that seemed to have solidified over her form shattered as her head whipped around to greet his gaze. Blue quickly trickled back into her irises as the black of her pupils practically disappeared. She looked like she had forgotten he was there.

“W-What?” she asked, blinking rapidly as if coming out of a spell.

“The lily.” He began packing up his supplies as he spoke. “It’s really good. You still need more practice with color if you want an A, but really you aren’t half bad.” Nathaniel wished he could pull the words back into his mouth the second they left. _You aren’t half bad_ to Chloé would probably provoke a comment that was the perfect mix of arrogant and insulting.

“Oh,” she said, her gaze briefly returning to the piece. “Thanks.” Or not? Wow that was weird. What was he supposed to say to that? You’re welcome? This was Chloé, he wasn’t used to interacting with her like a normal human. Thankfully she spoke before he had the chance to say something stupid. “So tomorrow, same time?” As she spoke she picked up the piece she had been staring at and began walking across the room. He wasn’t really sure what she was doing until she dropped the lily straight into the trash can.

Why was she throwing it away? Did she not believe him? Did she think it was awful? Maybe she just really didn’t like art? Maybe she didn’t want to clutter her space with it? Maybe—

Wait, did she say tomorrow?

“You want me to come back?” Nathaniel zipped up his bag and slipped the strap over his shoulder. On her way back to the table she glared at him.

“Of course,” she snapped. “You didn’t think we were only going to have one session did you?” Well, come to think of it that did seem pretty stupid. But really, he had assumed that she was going to fire him and hire someone else. “You have to keep tutoring me until I have an A.” She glanced up from organizing the supplies strewn about the table. “Is that a problem?” Her tone of voice indicated that if he replied yes she might just castrate him.

Deciding he’d rather keep his body intact, he replied, “No, it isn’t a problem.”

“Good. So be here tomorrow at 2:30.” He nodded. “And remember, don’t-,”

“Don’t tell anyone. I know.” Luminous blue eyes narrowed and pink lips pursed in a look that could scare Satan himself. Suddenly she was mere inches from him, blue burning into teal.

“I swear to God Kurtzberg, if this becomes public knowledge, you **will** suffer.”

He was almost scared due to the sheer memory of being scared. He knew that before that day, he would have been scared. Chloé was certainly a force to be reckoned with, as he had experienced firsthand. But Yesterday Nathaniel was no longer Today Nathaniel. And Today Nathaniel had by some miracle lost his fear of the platinum blonde. In fact, it wasn’t until that moment that he realized he was taller than her. By a good portion too seeing as how she was in heels and he was still looking down at her.

And so even though a part of him knew he should be scared, he wasn’t. Not in the slightest bit. And at that, Nathaniel smiled.

“Yes Chloé,” he replied simply. He was expecting—even looking forward to—some sort of enraged look. Maybe some outright fury. But that isn’t what he got.

The blonde stumbled back a step. Though she quickly caught herself and tried to mask her features, he hadn’t missed that split second of panic that crossed her eyes. He immediately dropped the smile.

“Chloé? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she snapped, her composure already returned in full.

“A-Are you sure? I feel like I did something-,”

“Get out!” He flinched at the sudden snarl in her voice. The Chloé Bourgeois that he was familiar with had returned. Indeed it turned out that the poisonous tongue had merely been paused, and now it was back in play. She was back to being someone to avoid and to get away from as swiftly as possible.

So that’s what he did. Without another word, Nathaniel turned and left.

* * *

The door clicked shut, indicating that the art boy was finally gone. Chloé sighed and plopped down into her chair, slumping until her forehead rested on the table.

 _Finally_ , she thought. _Alone at last._

But no matter how many times she tried to tell herself she preferred it that way, every passing moment of silence reminded her how very small she was in this very large, empty, crushing room.

A shower. That was what she needed. The shower was the one place where she didn’t have to hide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man! Big stuff yo! All aboard for the angst train!!


	4. Smile for the Picture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Just close your eyes; the sun is going down. You’ll be alright; no one can hurt you now.” –Taylor Swift, Safe and Sound ft. The Civil Wars

“Wait, so you weren’t with Théo today?” Nathaniel’s attention was torn between the bread and cheese platter being handed to him by his mother and the question coming from the other one at the opposite end of the table. Despite his gnawing hunger he managed to answer the question as he picked out his soon-to-be-devoured food.

“No, actually Théo was asked to be an art tutor for...” he briefly wondered whether or not he should disclose her identity and decided against it. “...someone. But like I told you about before, he had a really important commission to work on, so he sent me instead.” Nathaniel’s questioning mother narrowed her teal eyes at him over the platter as he passed it on to her. He knew that look.

Whenever anyone found out that Nathaniel had two mothers, one of the first questions they often asked was if he was biologically related to them and if so, which one. But anyone who saw them didn’t need to ask. Abigail Kurtzberg—whom he referred to as “Mum” as was customary in her country of origin (England)—was practically an adult female version of him with her long straight red hair, pale skin, and bright teal eyes. But though he may have inherited her looks, one thing that he most definitely did not inherit was her inquisitive nature.

Before she could spit out the question forming on her tongue, however, the other spoke up. “Well that was nice of you to give up time with Théo to tutor them.” While he may not have been genetically related to her, Nathaniel had seemed to inherit his temperament from Lorraine Kurtzberg—whom he simply referred to as “Maman”. He like to think that that had something to do with spending nine months being carried by her, if not also being raised by her. The brown eyed brunette had always had a softer and less intrusive presence than Abigail, though she was still a force to be reckoned with.

Abigail hummed from the other side of the table, obviously not missing his lack of response to that comment. “Yes, very nice of you. And pray tell, who exactly was it that needed to be tutored?”

Luckily, he had been prepared for her asking. “Oh, just some girl from the middle school.”

Unluckily, despite being less inquisitive than her other half, Lorraine could read people so well they may as well be children’s books. Not even sparing him a glance as she spread some butter on a slice of bread, she calmly remarked, “Lying is unbecoming of you, Nathaniel.” It was only when she had finished her statement that she flicked her all-knowing brown eyes up to him with a gentle smile. She knew she was right. And he knew she knew she was right. And worst of all, Abigail knew he knew she knew she was right.

He stared down his plate, slightly ashamed. “She doesn’t want people to know she’s being tutored,” he answered honestly. Abigail hummed again while Lorraine simply took a bite of her bread. The table was silent while she chewed—Nathaniel having nothing else to say and Abigail staring daggers through his head in an attempt to open it up and discover its knowledge.

Eventually Lorraine spoke again. “You know you could have just said that.”

Nathaniel scratched the side of his face nervously. “I know, I was just worried that Mum-,”

He didn’t get to finish that thought though, because in that moment the subject of said thought slammed her hand down on the table and with a satisfied grin exclaimed, “Chloé Bourgeois!” Lorraine scowled at her wife while her son’s jaw dropped. Next thing he knew he was sputtering, trying to get his thoughts out in a coherent sentence. Eventually the word “how” spilled out. His mother simply sat back smugly and took a sip of her blood red wine.

“I’m a journalist, it’s what I do,” she said.

“No wonder she doesn’t want people to know,” Lorraine remarked—her voice touched with a hint of pity. That sure was a novel thought—pitying Chloé.

“Yes,” Nathaniel replied, his tongue finally rediscovering its ability to form words. “You can imagine how that might reflect badly on her father. So please don’t tell anyone.” Though he was turned to Lorraine when he said it, the one he was really worried about sat at the other end of the table.

“Of course we won’t,” she replied. “Right, Abigail?” The edge in her tone was something that didn’t come out often, but when it did it was to be feared.

Nathaniel watched as his mothers stared at each other across the table. Abigail chewed the inside of her cheek with a scowl. Lorraine, on the other hand, appeared as pleasant as ever with her soft gaze and gentle smile. But despite her gentle appearance, her eyes were solid and unwavering, knowing that any debate with her wife could eventually be won with a staring contest.

With a final sigh, the redhead relented. “Yes, of course. We won’t tell a soul.”

He smiled softly at her. “Thanks, Mum.”

“Yeah, yeah…” she replied as if annoyed. But the smile that she flashed him a moment later showed the truth of the matter. “You’re just lucky you’re my favorite kid.”

Despite it being a lame joke (he was her _only_ kid), they all chuckled and enjoyed the rest of their meal together.

* * *

Chloé was about half way through her meal and in the middle of reading an article titled “20 Teas You Need to Try Before You Die” when her father entered.

“Good evening, Chloé,” he said as he sat down at the table with her. Simon (the butler) wasted no time in bringing him a plate of food.

Without looking away from her phone, she replied with a simple, “Evening, Papa,” and stuck another bite of her chicken into her mouth.

This wasn’t the first time he’d been late for dinner of course, and it was far from the last. Aside from being the mayor of Paris, Andre Bourgeois also owned the most prestigious hotel in the country. In other words, he was a busy man. Chloé had learned long ago not to expect him to be present for meals much less anything else.

Before so much as two minutes had passed, Andre’s cell phone dinged to indicate that he had an email. He didn’t hesitate to take it out and read it, and then drop his fork to respond. Ten minutes later he set down his phone and turned his attention to his daughter.

“So how did the tutoring go today?”

Chloé’s thumb stilled in her scrolling as she internally debated what she should say. “It was fine,” she eventually decided.

Any other day, Chloé probably would have told him about the insubordination that was Théo blowing her off and sending a replacement. A replacement that was in her class, no less. There was no doubt in her mind that her father would be outraged and would take immediate action to remedy the situation. He would probably make it so Théo would never be able to find work again in Paris and he would probably bribe/threaten Nathaniel and his family to keep quiet. After all, the public didn’t need to know that Chloé was receiving help from anyone. It was already going to be bad enough with her receiving help from Paris’ finest artist.

And yet she didn’t feel the need to tell her father about it this time. To start, it just wasn’t necessary. She knew Nathaniel to be a shy loner who sat in the back of the class drawing and tuning everything else out. Even if he was going to tell anyone, he had no one to tell. And on that subject, Chloé was almost 100% certain he wasn’t going to tell anyone. He may not fear her, and he quite possibly hated her more than he hated anyone, but she was almost positive that he wouldn’t go back on his promise. He just didn’t seem like the type.

The previously stated reasons were the ones that Chloé had come up with to rationalize her almost immediate decision not to tell him. But really, she just didn’t _want_ him to know. She didn’t want him to take action. She didn’t want to ruin Théo’s career—even if he did deserve it for pulling what he did—but even more so, she didn’t want to get Nathaniel tied up in her father’s political web.

And even more than that, she didn’t want Nathaniel to stop tutoring her.

“You think you’ll be able to raise your grade to an A by the end of the semester?” The question wasn’t coming from a father who was simply interested in his daughter’s grades. The question was coming from a mayor who was interested in cleaning a potential black mark on his image.

That didn’t bother her though. She was long used to it.

“Yes, Papa.”

“Excellent,” he said with his business smile. “I knew I could leave it in your capable hands.” And with that, he was picking up his phone again to respond to another email.

Chloé went back to reading the list of teas—which was severely lacking, really these people at Buzzfeed didn’t know what they were talking about—and finished her meal. A few minutes later she stood and crossed the room to kiss her father’s cheek. “Goodnight, Papa.”

“Goodnight, Chloé.”

She had taken a few steps toward her bedroom when she paused and turned back. “Simon, please bring a cup of chamomile tea to my room in fifteen minutes.” When the butler nodded his understanding, she turned and left.

Chloé had managed to keep her mind occupied in one way or another after cooling it off in the shower, but she had a feeling that when she tried to lie down and fall asleep she would have some trouble. It wasn’t like she wasn’t used to it. Ever since her mother had died, Chloé had become well-acquainted with the occasional sleepless night. She had simply learned to deal with them, whether that be with sleeping pills, Nyquil, or her favorite of the options—chamomile tea. The tea wouldn’t knock her out like the others did, but it was smooth and relaxing and by far the most enjoyable to consume. And on nights like this, when she just _might_ have _some_ trouble falling asleep, it did the trick.

When she got to her room, she immediately stepped out of her heels. They were gorgeous of course, and they were most definitely one of the most comfortable pairs of heels one could find—she only paid for the best after all—but at the end of the day they were still heels and as such killed her feet. She sighed contentedly as her bare feet made contact with the plush carpet underneath her. As much as she sometimes wished to live in a house, living in a 5 star hotel did have its perks.

As she made her way over to her dresser, Chloé’s mind finally began to acknowledge the storm that had been brewing in the background for hours. Like prisoners suddenly set free, her thoughts and emotions from the day came crashing through her, taking over. Her stomach churned uncomfortably. Her heart felt like it was within someone’s grip and they were squeezing it.

This was an emotion she rarely felt these days: guilt.

 _Get out!_ She remembered yelling. She had snapped at him, and he hadn’t deserved it. Sure, Chloé snapped at a lot of people. She did it almost on a daily basis. It wasn’t like snapping at people alone made her feel guilty. But she never snapped at people who were merely expressing concern for her.

Of course, that was mostly because no one did express concern for her. That wasn’t a common occurrence these days, even from her father. Of course she knew her father cared about her, but he was so rarely around her that it didn’t matter. Sabrina was the only one that had ever really expressed interest in Chloé’s well-being—not that she’d ever opened up to her anyway—and now even she was gone, moved to Germany with her father.

But even aside from the lack of people expressing concern for her, Chloé felt really bad that she had snapped at him for it. Not that it really made a difference. The outcome was still the same: he asked if she was okay, she said she was fine, he left, he hated her. It didn’t change anything between them, he had hated her before. Although, if he _had_ hated her why was he concerned for her in the first place? It had to be because he was the one who had caused it. That could be the only reason. He could tell that he had brought up some negative feelings in her and he felt bad. Just like how she was feeling right now. Just because she felt guilty about yelling at him didn’t mean she cared about how he felt. She just felt bad. She still…hated him.

“Madame Bourgeois, your tea.” Simon’s voice accompanied by a soft knock on the door interrupted her thoughts.

“Yes, come in.” The butler entered holding a silver tray that carried nothing but a steaming cup of tea. Without another word, he set the cup down on her dresser and exited. After it had had a moment to cool, she gladly sipped from it and sighed as the warmth of the drink soothed her insides. That grip on her heart loosened and her stomach settled.

She began to wonder if he would come back. She wouldn’t exactly be surprised if he decided not to. She also wouldn’t be surprised if he simply misinterpreted her actions as her not wanting him to come back. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time. But if he didn’t come…what would she do?

Chloé reached the bottom of her cup and set it down. The guilt wasn’t completely gone, and the stress of the day still lingered, but she could sleep. She was emotionally exhausted after all. Feeling so many things in one day was not something she was accustomed to, and her body desperately begged for rest. So, finally turning out the light and sinking into her this-may-as-well-be-a-cloud mattress, Chloé gave her body its wish. And just as she drifted off to sleep, deep red hair, warm teal eyes, and smiling pink lips floated before her mind’s eye.

* * *

Nathaniel lay awake in bed staring up at the ceiling. This wasn’t the first time this had happened. He often had problems falling asleep at night. There was something exhilarating about night air that made his thoughts feel truly _alive_. The hours between sunset and sunrise were the ones in which Nathaniel felt the most inspired—the hours in which his best pieces had been born.

But it wasn’t artistic inspiration that kept him up this night.

_Get out!_

The words of her sudden explosion rang through his mind as if it were an echo chamber. Something wasn’t right. She had snapped—even yelled—at him plenty of times before. But that? That was different. Something was _wrong_. She was scared. Something _he_ had done had somehow terrified her, and he had no idea what.

Nathaniel chewed the inside of his cheek as he mentally retraced the whole scene. Him smiling at her threat had to be what did it. There was nothing else in the situation that could have possibly triggered her like that. But what was it about his smile that could bring about that sort of fear in her? Surely that didn’t happen every time he smiled. He had smiled at her before that right? He was pretty sure it had happened at least once before that, and her reaction most definitely hadn’t been _that_.

So what happened!? Was it because he wasn’t afraid of her? Did that scare her?

Surely that couldn’t be it though because otherwise she would’ve shown signs throughout their entire tutoring session.

Letting out an aggravated sigh, Nathaniel turned to lay on his side and squeezed his favorite pillow against his chest harder than it deserved. After all, it wasn’t the pillow’s fault that he was trying to decipher the actions of the most irritating person on the planet.

Why was he spending so much thought on this anyway?

_That’s a stupid question, Nathaniel. You’re thinking about this because you triggered her and you don’t like that. Because even if she is evil incarnate, she still doesn’t deserve to be triggered like that._

But even thinking on it like this was getting him nowhere. He had about as good a chance at cracking the mystery that was Chloé’s psyche as he did riding on the back of a unicorn.

And so far, no unicorn sightings.

 _Best to just stop thinking about it for now_ , he decided. And with his pillow in his arms, he willed himself into sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #NathIsTotallyAPillowHuggerAndYouCan'tTellMeOtherwise  
> Oh man I'm so excited, things are picking up now! So the next couple chapters are already written, but after that, weekly updates might start being hard since I just got back to school and this semester promises an intense work load. But I will be trying my best to bring you each chapter as soon as possible! <3


	5. Swallowing My Pride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I don’t wanna hear about the bad blood anymore.” –Bastille, Bad Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you Alex (http://alleychatmain.tumblr.com/) for your lovely help as a beta!! <3

The moment Nathaniel stepped foot onto the school campus the next morning, he knew this was going to be a lot harder than expected. The platinum blonde was always visible from great distances with her bright bee-themed color scheme, but Nathaniel couldn’t exactly lie to himself and say _that_ was the reason his eyes had locked onto her the second she was in sight. He also couldn’t blame her color scheme for how even outside of the classroom he couldn’t stop glancing in her direction. He was acting the way a middle school kid with a crush did: keeping constant tabs on the position of the target, nervously glancing at the target while also trying to pretend they weren’t, looking away when the target so much as gestured in their general direction, heart rate going haywire when the target walked toward th—oh nO RED ALERT TARGET APPROACHING. CHLOÉ APPROACHING.

It was still before class had started for the day. When he had entered the classroom, he had done his best to not look at her, but of course he had and _of course_ she had looked at him too. Both of them had quickly looked away and Nathaniel had made his way to the back of the classroom as he always did, but it appeared that wasn’t enough. Now the blonde’s midnight heels were clicking loudly as she angrily paced straight toward him. He tried not to notice like he always used to when she bullied him.

Her hand soon slammed down on the desk in front of him in her usual fashion. He looked up and fought the urge to back up. She was well within his personal space bubble—no doubt an attempt at intimidation—but he forced himself to stay put and meet her eyes. “Alright art dweeb,” she snarled. _Very creative insult_ , he thought to himself. “I know I’m the most gorgeous person you’ve ever seen and you probably get all sorts of artistic inspiration from the sight of me, but seriously,” she jabbed her index finger into his chest and proceeded to punctuate every word with a violent poke, “stop. Staring. At. Me.”

Nathaniel stared at her with an expression of sheer boredom as he internally sighed. So this was how it was gonna be, eh? She would tame her attitude while they focused on art and then she would go back to being a complete asshole to him when at school? Sure, admittedly he did keep accidentally looking at her, but he doubted anyone else had noticed. This really wasn’t necessary.

Well fine. If that was how she wanted to play…

“Sorry,” he eventually responded, completely deadpan. “You just keep distracting me with those blood red horns coming out of your head and the matching tail.”

Ten. That’s how many shades of red he counted as her cheeks heated up. The entire room fell into silence. Though most of the students were already there for the day and would normally be chatting around this time, no one wanted to miss this. Eyes wide and look of utter outrage completely frozen on her face, Chloé simply stood there with her hand on his desk for several passing seconds.

She may have stood there much longer if Nathaniel hadn’t caught movement coming from the door. A happy couple made their way into the room hand in hand as they did almost every morning, completely oblivious to the solid tension in the air. That was just the distraction he needed. As Adrien and Marinette slowed to a halt, Nathaniel dug through his bag until he found a painting he had recently finished.

“Marinette,” he called happily, completely ignoring Chloé as he stood up and moved to the front of the room. Marinette—who had been leaning in for Alya to whisper in her ear—straightened up and faced him with a confused but kind smile. The rest of the class still seemed a bit stuck on the previous drama, but he pretended not to notice. They would go back to their lives soon enough.

“Good morning...Nath,” she said pleasantly despite her obvious confusion as to what she had walked into. Adrien stood by her side and a step behind her, fingers still intertwined with hers, and appeared as curious as she was.

“Happy birthday,” he said as he held the painting out to her. She straightened in surprise before smiling. _Target is moving_ , a voice whispered in his mind as he registered the sound of Chloé’s heels clicking again. They were much softer this time so he assumed she was simply making her way back to her desk. Soon enough a glance to his right confirmed that she had returned to her seat next to Lila in the front of the room.

“Oh Nath, you didn’t have to get me anything,” Marinette replied with a bright smile. The rest of the classroom fell into a much more comfortable chatter as she looked down at the painting. Adrien came up behind her, resting his chin on her shoulder to look at it too. Mere seconds later, his face lit up in a smile that Nathaniel thought belonged to a young child receiving a puppy on Christmas.

The painting was a very detailed piece that he had decided to paint last autumn when he’d seen the pair out on the sidewalk holding hands. The two had been laughing about who knows what and had looked so utterly and completely in love that he’d known immediately that he would have to recreate it.

Inspiration hit him that way sometimes. Rather than having an idea or deciding to draw something, every once in a while a certain sight would stick with him so hard that he couldn’t rest until he’d put it on a canvas. And one of Paris’ most beautiful couples (probably second only to Ladybug and Chat Noir) had been far too heartwarming to resist.

Suddenly Adrien’s hand was no longer connected to his girlfriend’s. Instead he was encompassing Nathaniel in a hug that almost sent them both to the ground.

“It’s beautiful, Nath, thank you!” he exclaimed. Nathaniel laughed.

“The gift is for Marinette, not you,” he jabbed playfully. Marinette laughed and pulled her boyfriend off of him.

“Thank you, Nathaniel,” she said as the giddy blonde boy returned to her side and slid an arm around her waist.

“Of course,” he said with a smile. “Happy birthday.” She smiled.

“Hey, we’re having a little get together after school today to celebrate, do you want to come?” Despite the fact that Nathaniel often preferred to be on his own, he had accepted the occasional invitation from Marinette and her friends. Adrien, Nino, and Alya were pretty much impossible not to love after all. He was about to accept this one when his memory came crashing in like a cold wave. He internally sighed yet again. Just when he was finally forgetting about Chloé’s presence.

“I’m sorry, I wish I could, but I’ve got plans,” he responded. He tried to hide how nervous he had suddenly become dancing so close to the forbidden subject, but by the glance he received from Adrien he was pretty sure he’d been found. Marinette on the other hand…

…smacked her forehead. “Oh duh! How could I forget, your internship of course! How is it going? You were supposed to start working on a big commission yesterday right?” Nathaniel stared down at her, relieved that those big blue eyes hadn’t managed to see right through him.

“Uhh y-yeah,” he stuttered out, glad to have an escape. He noticed the yellow figure in his peripheral vision shift and suddenly his heart was racing again. “I-It’s going really well.”

She smiled brightly at him. “Good! Tell Théo I say hi okay?” He smiled back at her.

“Will do.”

And then, like clockwork, the bell rang, signaling that it was time to go to their seats. Nathaniel had never crossed a room faster.

* * *

Chloé sat at her desk decorated with art supplies, eyes glazed over as she scrolled through Twitter on her phone. She may as well have been staring at the wall for all the attention she was giving it. Why she felt the need to pretend that she wasn’t anxious only God knew. There was no one else in the room with her—no one to ridicule her for being anxious over whether or not her tutor would show up. And yet here she was, doing her best to pretend that that wasn’t the case.

Why was she anxious anyway? Worst case scenario: he didn’t show. And that wouldn’t be a big deal. She could just hire someone else. Maybe she could call Théo and threaten to ruin his career if he didn’t show up himself this time. He would come and then she would have a tutor who wasn’t some snarky kid from her class and all would be well. No big deal.

And yet she was anxious. He was already five minutes late and she was just sitting there waiting. She felt pathetic, sitting there like some loser being stood up on a date. He probably wasn’t going to come. Why would he after all? After she had yelled at him to get out the previous day and then tried to ridicule him in front of the whole class earlier that day, she would be lucky if he even decided to keep her secret so much as continue tutoring her.

But at the same time she knew that he wouldn’t dare stand her up like that. After all, she was Chloé Bourgeois. He knew that. He knew that she could ruin his life if she wanted to. And he wasn’t stupid enough to think that he could disrespect her like that. Right?

A knock sounded at the door and she opened it to see the dumb hipster standing there nonchalantly with a completely passive expression on his face. After a quick internal sigh of relief, Chloé was back to thinking straight.

“You’re late,” she said. Nathaniel raised an eyebrow, his expression moving from passive to disbelieving.

“Aight,” he said. He turned to walk back toward the elevator. “Have a nice day.” Her jaw dropped. Who the hell did he think he was? How dare he just leave like that!? Chloé stepped out into the hall after him.

“Where the fuck are you going!?”

He clicked the button for the elevator and stood there waiting without turning to face her. “I’m leaving.”

“What makes you think you can do that!?” Finally he turned to look at her. The expression he wore told her that he thought the same of her that she had only moments before: pathetic.

“Well, I’ve got these two legs here that are fully functional and-,”

“Shut the fuck up and get back over here!”

“No.”

“Nathaniel, I swear to God-,”                                

“What? What are you going to do? Make my life a living Hell? You already do that. You’re lucky I even showed up. After the way you spoke to me in class today you really think you deserve to have me here?” The elevator opened up behind him but he stood still, waiting for a response. He was giving her a chance.

She ground her teeth in frustration. _Just let him go_ , she thought to herself. _Who cares if he leaves? You can just get a new tutor._ But she had to admit it: she didn’t want a new tutor.

She stood there in silence, her mind at war with itself. She wanted to be her usual self. She wanted to chastise him for being so rude to her. She wanted to tell him she didn’t need him. She wanted to just get rid of him. But she simply couldn’t get her mouth to form the words. They seemed wrong.

Finally Nathaniel shook his head, turned, and stepped into the elevator. The doors had almost shut when suddenly Chloé was there, hand stuck in between them. They opened back up compliantly. The boy stood there staring at her, waiting.

Her hands were balled into fists so tightly that her nails were painfully digging into her palms. She looked anywhere but him while she tried to form the words.

“Please come back.”

“Why?” She looked at him then, outraged that he was pushing this even further while also silently pleading that he not make her say it. But his gaze remained rock solid. He wasn’t going to just give this to her.

“Because,” she eventually said, staring at the wall behind him, “I was wrong to treat you that way.” That was it. That was all she was willing to give him. She had already swallowed enough of her pride. If he wanted an apology he would have to go somewhere else and she would just get a new tutor. Apologizing was where she drew the line.

She was preparing to tell him to fuck off when he surprised her with one word.

“Fine.”

Her eyes came back to his. “What?”

“Fine,” he repeated. “Let’s go.” He nodded his head back toward her room, making wisps of bright red hair float in front of teal eyes. Teal eyes that had softened. While they weren’t warm like they had been when he’d smiled at her the day before, they were still much more than she deserved and she knew it.

“O-Okay,” she finally said. And after taking one more moment to soak in the teal waters of his eyes, she turned and made her way back to the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed the splash of adrienette! There is more to come, sooner than you think. ;)


	6. Something New

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Eyes stinging from the black smoke, new hope.” –Sia, Burn the Pages.

He had given her a chance.

He had stayed.

He was tutoring her.

He was _here_.

Why on Earth was he here? It didn’t make any sense. The way Chloé saw it, any person who had a good amount of self-respect wouldn’t be here now. She knew if someone had treated her the way she had treated him, she wouldn’t have knocked on the door. She wouldn’t have stayed still when the elevator arrived. She wouldn’t have come back. _She wouldn’t be here._

So why was he? The immediate answer would be to say it was because he didn’t have any self-respect. But she knew that wasn’t true. It may have been true in the past when he was the measly art boy that she could walk all over, but now? Now he was this young man with a strong spine and witty remarks where fear once resided. He had enough self-respect to look her in the eye when he spoke. He had enough self-respect to _leave_.

And yet he hadn’t.

Why? Why had he knocked on the door? Why had he turned back around? Why had he waited? Why had he given her a chance? _Why was he here?_

“Chloé.”

She jumped at the sudden sound of her name in the silence that had fallen over them and a streak of paint made its way across her paper. Crap.

She looked up at him in silent question. He was staring at her with the same expression that had covered his features for the past hour. It was passive, a little cold, tired, and soft.

“What’s wrong?”

“What do you mean?”

“You aren’t focusing. Where’s your mind?”

“Of course I’m focusing! Look at this gladiola!” She gestured to the flower in front of her that had been looking fairly good before she had slashed through it. But he wasn’t convinced. Those tired teal eyes remained on her, waiting. He knew that he was right and he knew that she knew he was right, and now he was waiting for her explanation. She pursed her lips and fidgeted nervously under his gaze. He set his elbow on the table so he could rest his head in his palm, a silent message that he would wait until she spoke. She looked away. After a few moments of silence, she relented. “Why are you here?” she asked quietly.

“To tutor you,” he responded simply. She flicked her eyes up to him in vague annoyance. His expression didn’t change.

“You know what I mean. Why did you come back?”

“You asked me to.” At that she creased her eyebrows. She didn’t understand. Her asking him to come back wasn’t nearly enough reason to do so. He sighed. “Look, if you’re feeling bad or something—,”

“I don’t feel bad.”

“Then what’s wrong?” Chloé pursed her lips, unsure how she should answer.

“I just…don’t understand why you gave me a chance.” She stared down at her gladiola, not wanting to meet his eyes amidst such a confession.

“Do you not deserve one?” He wasn’t asking the question in the sense of a ‘you deserve one.’ He was legitimately asking her if she deserved it.

 _Of course I do, I deserve everything_ , sprang up in the back of her mind, but for once she silenced it. It was wrong. It was what she would usually say but it was wrong and she knew it. But admit that she didn’t deserve it? And to _him_ of all people? She couldn’t do that.

So she didn’t answer. Once he seemed to realize that she wasn’t going to, he spoke again. “I think you do.”

Chloé’s head snapped up in surprise. Sharp blue connected with soft teal only interrupted by wisps of fiery red. Pink, purple, and gold all flashed in her periphery but she couldn’t tear her eyes from his.

“What?” she heard herself ask, paying much more attention to the vibrant sight before her.

Surprisingly broad shoulders shrugged from underneath a loose grey over shirt. “I think you deserve a chance.”

 _Why?_ She wanted to ask. Why on earth would he think she deserved a chance when even _she_ didn’t? She wanted to ask. She wanted to ask him what it was that he saw in her that made him think this was worth the Hell she put him through. She wanted to ask him how he could have possibly found it in himself to continue to tutor her when she hadn’t even apologized to him.

She wanted to ask why.

But she didn’t. She couldn’t. What would that say about her? It would reveal that she in fact did not believe she deserved a chance. It would reveal that she couldn’t possibly imagine someone thinking she deserved a chance. It would reveal that she cared what he thought.

Wait. Scratch that. Scratch that scratch that scratch that, NO. She did NOT care what he thought about her. Absolutely not. He was just Nathaniel, that stupid art boy who sat in the back of the class and drew silly pictures of Marinette. He was just the guy who had the audacity to look her in the eye and tell her that she was rude. He was just the asshole who had made her look ridiculous in front of the whole class earlier that day. She most definitely didn’t give two shits about what he thought of her and even if she did, it wouldn’t matter because she already knew he hated her.

_But if he hates me then why does he think I deserve a chance?_

Chloé wasn’t sure how much time had passed while she had been lost in her thoughts. All she knew was that eventually a silence had grown between them enough for Nathaniel to break it.

“Look… I know you don’t like me, okay? I don’t exactly like you either.” Chloé ignored the pit that fell in her stomach at hearing her own thoughts validated by him. “But if this whole tutoring thing is going to work, we need to stop being at each other’s throats. That’s why…” he paused to consider his words for a moment, “...I’ll agree to be nice if you will.”

* * *

 

_Who the Hell do you think you are!? What makes you think you can talk to me that way? Do you even realize who I am? I could destroy you and you think you can make demands of me? Fuck you, get out of my hotel and don’t come back._

Nathaniel had prepared himself to hear something along those lines. A part of him even expected them. But when they didn’t come, he was actually surprised by now not surprised he was. Somehow he had known that Chloé would accept his offer. He knew that at least for the night, she wouldn’t be blowing up at him in one of her namesake tantrums. He wondered if that would last.

But whether it lasted or not, Nathaniel felt almost _proud_ of Chloé. Was that demeaning of him? Probably. But really, it was Chloé. That night he had seen her not only admit to being wrong, but also express self-doubt (albeit indirectly), and make a peaceful agreement to be nice.

Mere days ago Nathaniel never would have thought any of those things possible. In a way it made her more… _human_. Obviously he still hated her—she was _Chloé Bourgeois_ after all—but now when he looked at her, he didn’t have that same knee jerk reaction to walk the other way. She didn’t look like the same bitchy middle school bully she had always been before.

She looked like Chloé.

And while that still had its fair share of negative associations, it was something. Try as he might to deny it, a small bit of hope bloomed in Nathaniel’s mind. Hope that maybe—just maybe—there was a real person underneath it all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for this short chapter. I kind of threw it together because I realized I needed it in here just earlier this week (oops). Anyway, thank you for reading! See you next week! <3


	7. Everybody Talks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It started with a whisper.” –Neon Trees, Everybody Talks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! Mid-week special side chapter! Enjoy! :D

The party had officially been dubbed over when Alya had been discovered passed out on the couch downstairs around 10:30 pm.

“But it’s early,” she wearily mumbled as Nino lifted her into his arms to take her home. Despite her half-hearted objections, she happily cuddled up to him as he cradled her. “It’s for Mari’s birthday.”

At that Marinette smiled and brushed some of her best friend’s hair back. “Thank you Alya, but you need to go home and sleep.”

Alya peeked her eyes open enough to look at her. “I’m not tired,” she said quietly, convincing everyone of the opposite. “It’s 10:30 on a Friday night, I can’t sleep…”

Nino leaned down and kissed the top of his girlfriend’s head. “You’re very tired babe. And Marinette knows you love her. Now let’s get you home.” She closed her eyes again and nodded.

“Night night Adrienette,” she mumbled, making the two recipients giggle. “Love you.”

“We love you too Alya,” Adrien answered. “Goodnight.”

“Night kids,” Nino said. “Happy birthday Mari.”

“Thanks Nino,” she replied with a smile. And then the two were gone, leaving Marinette alone with her boyfriend and a messy house. “Alright,” she said in her business voice as she turned to him, “I’ll start collecting all the plates around the room and you start on dishes?” Adrien sighed dramatically as he began rolling up his sleeves.

“I don’t know if I would’ve entered this relationship if I’d known it would mean eternal dish duty.” She raised an eyebrow at him with a smirk that she usually only wore as Ladybug and he smiled back a toothy grin that belonged on Chat Noir. She rolled her eyes and moved to begin her job.

“As if you had a choice,” she remarked playfully. Before she could move too far away from him, he wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her back to smack a sloppy kiss on her cheek.

“You’re right,” he said. “I never had a choice, I was taken by you from day one.” With a single finger on his nose, she gently pushed him away in the direction of the kitchen.

“That’s right,” she replied. “Now get to work.” Another dramatic sigh.

“Yes, My Lady.” And with that he went to work at the sink.

“Okay so question,” Marinette began a minute later.

“Shoot.”

“Did you notice how nervous Nath seemed earlier today?”

“Yeah! I wondered if I was imagining it, but he was definitely a little shifty.” Marinette scowled as she brought a few plates back to the sink.

“Why do you think he was acting like that?”

Adrien shrugged as he took the stack of plates from her. “Maybe he still has a crush on you?”

She shook her head as she walked away again. “No, he’s long over that.”

“You sure about that? You’re a hard girl to get over.”

“Oh, like you’ve ever had to get over me?”

“Hey,” he said, turning and shaking a soapy finger at her, “I tried on multiple occasions back when I was still conflicted over the whole Marinette versus Ladybug thing.” She smiled and rolled her eyes.

“I’m sure. He stopped having a crush on me almost immediately after getting akumatized.” Adrien hummed in thought.

“You know…” he eventually began again, but then he shook his head. “No.”

Marinette dropped off a few more dishes and leaned against the counter next to him. “What?”

He pursed his lips. “Well I mean… I don’t know. I was probably imagining it.”

“Imagining what?” she prodded. He glanced at her as he thought back to the classroom earlier that day.

“Remember how he kept nervously glancing around?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, it sort of looked like he was glancing in a particular direction.”

Marinette narrowed her eyes as she tried to recall the scene. Then her eyes widened as she realized what he was implying. “Wait, you don’t think…?”

They both stared at each other, equally disbelieving but eyes narrowed in intense thought. “No,” Adrien eventually said, unconvinced of even his own response. “It couldn’t be…right?”

She shrugged. “You would know better than I would.”

“What why?”

“Because you were friends with her once upon a time.”

“Oh yeah…” Adrien said as he turned his attention back to the dishes in the sink. He pursed his lips. “I don’t know, I guess it’s possible. I mean, if Chloé were going to be with someone they would have to be extremely patient.” Marinette snorted.

“Yeah, they’d have to put up with her.” That received a flick of water coupled with a scowl. She frowned. Okay, that was mean. “Sorry.” He returned his attention to the dishes again.

“Look, I know she’s always been mean to you, but there really is more to her. The thing is, it takes a while to find that. She doesn’t open up easily. She never even really opened up to me, I just happened to see a few of the cracks in the paint over the years.”

“So you’re saying it’s possible because Nath is so patient?”

He shrugged. “I guess yeah, but why would they hang out together in the first place?”

Marinette decided to get back to dish collection. “Maybe she thinks he’s cute,” she said, not entirely serious. After all, Chloé had an ego the size of a mountain. The only one she’d ever thought pretty enough for her was the model standing in the kitchen.

Adrien, however, took her words seriously. “I mean, he really has aged well.” Marinette looked over at him, eyebrow raised. “And with the piercings?” He immediately shut his mouth as if remembering who he was talking to. He nervously turned to look at her and found her smirking at him. His head sunk down between his shoulders as he blushed. “Sorry.”

She smiled and made her way over to him to peck his cheek. “I love my bisexual boyfriend,” she said happily. Then she kissed him again before going back to work. “Well, it doesn’t matter. We’re probably just imagining the whole thing anyway.”

“Yeah you’re right, Nath probably just happened to be glancing in her direction. Though we still don’t know why he was nervous.”

Marinette giggled mischievously. “Maybe he has a crush on _you_.” She laughed as her boyfriend’s cheeks began to resemble a tomato. “Hehe, you’re cute when you blush.”

Adrien sputtered a bunch of nonsensical words before eventually coming back with “YOUR FACE IS CUTE.”

She grinned as she sat up on the counter. “What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?”

Green eyes narrowed at her in a silent “Challenge accepted.” He quickly dried off his hands before pulling her into a kiss.

All thought was swept away with the sudden heat of his kiss. Marinette tilted her head and opened her mouth, reveling in the sensation of his tongue against hers.

And then he bit it.

She yelped in surprise and pulled away as he laughed. She glared at him.

“Actually,” he said with a shit eating grin. “I think it’s got yours.”

Marinette bit the inside of her lips in an effort to not laugh. She failed.

“Whatever, kitty cat,” she said, pushing his face away from her. “Get back to work.”

“Yes, My Lady.”


	8. Tired of Seeing in Black and White

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The hair in your eyes, it never disguised what you’re really thinking of.” –Anberlin, The Unwinding Cable Car.

Chloé sat at the dinner table meandering in her own mind as she nibbled at her salad. The past couple weeks had been rather smooth and finally she was starting to settle into a normal rhythm. Each day she would get up, go to school, come home, be tutored by Nathaniel for a couple hours, take a shower, eat dinner, and go to bed. It was nice to have a steady rhythm again, even if that rhythm did include two hours of sitting at a small table with a man who had once tried to kill her. She could deal with that.

It wasn’t that bad anyway. The more time she spent with Nathaniel, the more he became his own image in her mind and not the image of the akuma villain. Really she should have known that. After all, she wasn’t Antibug. At least…for the most part. But it was hard to make that same sort of conclusion about someone else when really the only extended interactions you’d had with them were as their akumatized self. In the past she simply couldn’t help thinking of Nathaniel as the cruel monster who had tormented her and erased her shoes. But now...

He was Nathaniel.

Chloé felt a slight discomfort at that thought and rather than try to understand it, she decided to move away from it. She stared down at her nails to distract herself. The polish on her French manicure was still perfect of course, but it had almost been a week. She should probably get them redone soon. She wondered if she should try getting them painted something other than the simple white tips that she always went with. Maybe she could try doing solid white. Or maybe even a different color. Like purple. Nathaniel’s nails had been painted purple that day. A really deep glossy purple that popped against the pale skin of his long, nimble fingers as they gently gripped the pencil—

The discomfort was back. Okay, so nails didn’t work. This time she started looking around the hotel suite. The decorations hadn’t changed in years and she was beginning to think that maybe something new was in order. She soon realized that this was a dumb way to distract herself given the source of her redecorating thoughts.

The thoughts had emerged earlier that day when Nathaniel had made some comment about pink being her favorite color.

“What? Pink isn’t my favorite color,” she had responded.

“It isn’t?” he had asked with a look of mild shock.

“No.”

Chloé hoped her expression hadn’t shown how nervous it made her when he had narrowed his eyes and stared at her. He had stayed like that for a few seconds, scrutinizing her intensely before speaking again. “Yellow?”

“No? I don’t have a favorite color.” All of the tension that had been in his face had fallen away in that moment to be slowly replaced with utter disbelief.

“You don’t…have…but…how…what?”

“What? I don’t have a favorite color.” The artist had looked like his mind was shutting down. As if it had quit at the sound of her statement. She couldn’t fathom why. It wasn’t that weird to not have a favorite color, was it? Colors were just details. They didn’t mean anything. They were descriptors. It was like asking what her favorite adjective was. No one had a favorite adjective, much less a favorite noun or verb. Because that would be ridiculous. They were just words. And colors were just colors.

“Not even a top three?” he had eventually continued.

“No.”

“But how is that even possible?” She had merely shrugged and stared at him like the weirdo that he was. “You really don’t have a preference of one over another?”

“No…?”

“Is it because you like them all too much?”

“No.”

The conversation had continued on like that for a while—Nathaniel refusing to accept that anyone could possibly not have a favorite color and Chloé wondering why the hell it was such a big deal. So she didn’t have a favorite color, so what? It wasn’t like she was any less human for it. She just didn’t see colors that way.

She did realize why he had thought it was pink though. Until that moment she really hadn’t noticed how nauseatingly pink it was in her suite. The wallpaper, the furniture, the decorations—everything was pink with white and black accents. It was sickening. Part of her wished she could just go back to not noticing it. But she couldn’t, and now she needed to redecorate.

What sort of color scheme would she even go with though? As was made abundantly clear, she didn’t have a favorite color. Not even much of a preference for anything. Maybe she should just paint everything white. She frowned. She knew that would just produce a similar effect.

Chloé ground her teeth as she looked around the room, desperately trying to imagine other colors decorating it. This would be a lot easier if she just had a favorite color. Was it really that weird that she didn’t have one? Nathaniel had seemed to be under the impression that everyone had a favorite color. Was that true? Was something wrong with her? Should she have a favorite color? Were colors supposed to mean something more to her than they did? She couldn’t imagine finding such a simple visual descriptor attractive enough as to call it her favorite. Did everyone else really do that?

Movement from the other side of the dinner table caught her attention. Her father had stood up and was about to get back to work.

“Papa?” she asked.

“Yes, Chloé?” he responded as he put his suit jacket back on.

“What was Maman’s favorite color?”

Within the two seconds that it took for her to utter the question, the very air around them seemed to freeze. It was as if the atmosphere had gone from a gas to a reality-defying solid and now they were stuck there, trapped in this moment that they both desperately wished they could escape from. In hindsight she really should have seen this coming. She had said the m-word after all.

André Bourgeois was—for all intents and purposes—a professional actor. Each and every day he wore a diplomatic smile and he tailored his behavior and attitudes specifically to please the audience of the moment. It was a 24-hour job and he was an expert. One did not run the most successful hotel in France and keep their position as mayor of Paris without being a top-notch actor.

That’s why it was so jarring when the man physically flinched. Of course he immediately tried to cover it up with a cough, but Chloé hadn’t missed that moment of palpable tension. She may not have seen colors the way other people did, but she would have had to be completely blind to not see the way her question had momentarily _shattered_ him.

The expert that he was however, he very quickly put himself back together, at least enough to get offstage. “Pink,” he said curtly, and then he was practically running for the door. “I have to go now, have a good night sweetie.”

And then he was out the door, gone before she could even say goodnight. Her stomach sank. She really should have seen that coming.

Chloé wasn’t hungry anymore. With a deep sigh, she rose from the dinner table and made her way to her room to begin her nightly routine. But like everything else in her life these days, that routine was interrupted.

Chloé opened her closet door and—just as expected—her silk nightgown hung there peacefully. But as she was reaching for it, a splash of deep blue danced in the corner of her eye, demanding her attention. She blinked. It didn’t go away. Surrendering her attention completely, she slowly reached for the source of the vibrant hue and her hand soon made contact with smooth denim.

She hadn’t so much as spared this pair of blue jeans a glance since the day they’d been gifted to her by her fashion-clueless father. But the deep _beautiful_ azure clung to her eyes now and refused to let go. Even if she tried, she knew she wouldn’t be able to tear her gaze away. But she didn’t try. She didn’t want to.

Instead, she smiled.

* * *

“I just don’t understand it!” he sputtered, gesturing madly with his fork. “Everyone has a favorite color!” In the midst of his ranting, Nathaniel didn’t catch the knowing smile that was shared between the other two sitting at the dinner table. “Mine’s midnight purple, yours-,” he gestured to Abigail, “-is rust red, and yours-,” this time Lorraine, “-is earthy green. But her? Nothing! Not even a top three! That doesn’t make sense though, she almost always picks pinks and yellows to color her flowers! Why would she do that if they aren’t her favorites? Is it possible that they _are_ her favorites and she just doesn’t want to acknowledge that? I don’t get it!” Nathaniel finally silenced himself by angrily spearing a piece of steak and shoving it in his mouth. Abigail took the opportunity to jump in.

“Well, you did say that her main drawback when it comes to art is her coloring right?”

“Yeah, but that’s not super uncommon among non-artistic people. Color is hard. Your eyes are so used to seeing differences in shades and tones that when translating it onto paper it’s difficult to figure out what you’re doing wrong. But even people who have difficulty coloring at least _like colors_. She seemed so…" he struggled to find the right word, "... _indifferent_ to them!”

Abigail hummed as her son took another bite of his neglected food. “And you logically assumed that her favorites were pink and yellow because those are the colors she chooses to use most of the time.” He nodded in affirmation. “Perhaps it has more to do with the flowers themselves?”

Nathaniel chewed on that thought for a moment. “That’s possible. She almost always goes with pink for lilies and yellow for gladiolus.”

“Perhaps those are simply her favorite flowers,” Lorraine chimed in. Abigail glanced at her wife with a curious smirk, but Nathaniel most definitely missed the delicate hint.

“That’s possible. Those two and carnations are really the only thing she draws. I mean, that’s not a problem. The art class that she’s in focuses mostly on technique and grants a good amount of freedom subject-wise. I personally would get awfully sick of the flowers after a while, but…” Rather than properly finish his sentence, he merely shrugged and took another bite of steak.

After a quiet moment, Lorraine spoke. “Well aside from her lack of favoritism, are things going well?”

Nathaniel nodded. “Yeah, her art is coming along great. Like I said, she already had a B, so it’s not like we’re working with nothing here, but she’s already improved a great deal.”

“And is she being nice to you?” Abigail asked, a slight edge present in her tone. Her wife sent her a mild glare from across the table but she pretended not to notice.

Their ever-oblivious son merely chuckled. “’Nice’ isn’t exactly a term I would use to describe Chloé, but she isn’t being mean anymore at least. Some snappy insults will still slip out here and there—especially when she’s having a hard time doing something—but I can tell she’s trying.” Abigail leaned back, chewing the inside of her cheek in thought while her wife smiled warmly.

“That’s good to hear.”

Nathaniel smiled back at his mother—a full, joyous smile—and she knew. Lorraine sat back in her seat and shared a look with her wife across the table. A red eyebrow raised, waiting for the verdict. It received a nod.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay but really though Nath's moms are my favorite characters to write. Jussayin'.  
> Thanks for reading!! <3


	9. Can't Fight This Feeling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Would you let me see beneath your perfect?” –Labrinth, Beneath Your Beautiful ft. Emeli Sandé

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the long wait! I had two colds, two essays, two tests, two performances, and an anxiety attack all in two weeks so...yeah, fanfiction had to get put on the back burner unfortunately. But I'm back now and I'm healthy! So yay! Enjoy <3

_Step 1: Break out your crayons or colored pencils._

Nathaniel stared at his various coloring materials for a few moments before eventually deciding that he was more in a colored pencil sort of mood.

_Step 2: Turn off your phone, tablet, computer, whatever._

Done.

_Step 3: Find your favorite page in the book. That is the beginning._

The artist cracked open his slightly-worn stress relief coloring book and started looking for that night’s page. Several of the pieces had already been filled in, others only partially, and still some were completely empty. Every time he opened his coloring book a different page would pop out to him. Sometimes they were ones he had worked on and sometimes they were ones which had bored him in the past. This time, a design further toward the end was the one that called to him.

The design was a steady but varied pattern of slopes, curls, and points vaguely resembling flowers and leaves. It was completely blank. Every time he had passed it before it had seemed too simple, but now it looked detailed and beautiful. He flattened out the coloring book. This was tonight’s page.

_Step 4: Start coloring._

He didn’t wait another moment before picking up his cold yellow colored pencil and setting it upon the page. Whenever coloring in this book, Nathaniel made sure not to think too much about the coloring itself. This wasn’t art. This was therapeutic activity. Therefore, it didn’t matter the artistic choices he made with the colors. All that mattered was the act of coloring itself. So when he stopped mid-section and dropped the yellow colored pencil in favor of the black one, that was fine. He let his impulses fly free and take control while he took the opportunity to just sit back and relax. The whole point of stress relief coloring was to zone out after all.

So he did.

Nathaniel’s thoughts floated gently atop the calm lake of his conscious mind, free to flow wherever they wished. Their first stop: Chloé.

Well, more specifically, Chloé’s pants.

Over the past couple of weeks, Nathaniel had become much more accustomed to seeing Chloé at school and pretending like he wasn’t spending a solid chunk of his time with her every day. Every once in a while an alarm would still sound in his mind if for whatever reason she moved in his direction, but he had definitely gotten a lot better at _not_ glancing at her every ten seconds. In fact, things were almost on their way to being back to normal during the day.

And then she had come to school wearing… _blue_.

The moment Nathaniel stepped foot onto campus that day he had seen her. She was strutting in her full glory toward the classroom, the unmistakable sound of her black stilettos echoing through the courtyard with every step. Her platinum hair was up in its trademark ponytail swaying from side to side and her honeybee yellow sweater smoothly fluttered around her moving form as usual.

What was not usual was the deep blossom of pure unhindered azure set upon her legs.

Blue jeans.

Chloé Bourgeois was wearing blue jeans.

Chloé Bourgeois—whose color scheme hadn’t changed in the 12 years that he had been attending school with her—was wearing _blue jeans_.

The young woman’s outfit had changed a myriad of times of course. The yellow sweater used to cut off at her hips rather than hanging low as it did. She used to wear white flats rather than black heels. The white pants had at one time been a white skirt. The black stripes on her shirt had at one time been thinner. Hell, even back when she was six years old, she wore a cute bee-themed dress all the time. Never _ever_ had Nathaniel thought it possible that he would one day see her wearing anything other than yellow, black, or white.

And yet there she was, making her way across the courtyard in her my-eyes-may-as-well-have-died-and-gone-to-Heaven-because-that-is-a-drop-dead-beautiful- _blue_ jeans.

Nathaniel stared. He had flat out stared at her as she made her way to the classroom like the moron with a death wish that he was. Thankfully, Chloé hadn’t seemed to notice, simply continuing along her path until she was safely out of sight, sitting at her desk. It wasn’t until then that Nathaniel noticed that he had stopped dead in his tracks to do his moronic staring. With a deep breath and a quick glance around to confirm that no one noticed him being stupid, he had willed himself forward into the classroom.

He had done everything short of squeezing his eyes completely shut to try not to look at her as he entered the room, but it’s possible that not even super gluing his eyelids together would have stopped him. His eyes had inevitably made their way to hers after rather obviously hiking a trail up her legs, and he was mortified to find that she was looking back.

But he didn’t receive an angry glare or an eye roll or even just a quick cessation of eye contact as he would have expected from her. Rather, he watched as her chest swelled in a quick intake of breath, her spine clicked into place as she sat up in the slightest, the blue of her eyes widened by a small fraction and an unmistakable rosy hue took to her cheeks. A mere second later her head was turned away from him, directed back at her phone, no doubt in an attempt to hide what had happened.

At least, what Nathaniel was pretty sure had happened.

Chloé Bourgeois had blushed at the sight of him looking at her. Not only that, she had looked like she was waiting for him to look at her. Like she wanted to know what he would think. Had she wanted his approval of her new color choice? Because if so, she had it, no doubt. But it sure as hell didn’t seem like Chloé Bourgeois to seek approval from someone else. Especially not him.

Nathaniel had spent the rest of his day with his eyes glued to his sketchbook in a desperate attempt to not stare at the devastatingly beautiful sight at the front of the room. He kept glancing at the clock, noting that it seemed to get slower with every passing second. He just had to get through the day. He just had to get through the day and then he wouldn’t have to remind himself to not look at Chloé every two seconds.

Except when the bell finally did ring, he had remembered a very important impediment to that plan. Tutoring.

With that thought, the troubled artist set down the black colored pencil and resumed coloring with the yellow one. He sighed at his own stupidity. He had been trying so hard to not think about Chloé that he had forgotten about the hours he would have to spend with her after school.

Upon arriving at the suite, Nathaniel had taken a moment to center himself before knocking on the door. Although he may not have been punished for staring at her earlier, he knew that he most certainly would be if he couldn’t focus on the lesson.

But when Chloé opened the door, that hypothetical problem had resolved itself. She had put her white pants back on.

“You changed,” he had said, once again, like a moron. The look that he had received told him that she thought the same.

“Yeah, so?” _Warning: approaching dangerous territory_ , his mind had told him. But did his mouth listen? No, of course not. Nathaniel inadvertently dug his pencil a little harder into the paper as he recalled his stupidity.

“Why?”

“I don’t recall making my outfit any of your business.” _Danger, danger, retreat_ , his mind had screamed.

“But…it looked nice.”

“Excuse me? Are you saying I don’t look nice now?”

“N-No! Not at all, just-,”

“Just because you’re a fucking artist doesn’t mean that you know everything about looking good. I happen to wear clothes made by designers who get paid far more than you ever will.”

The tip of his colored pencil snapped from him pushing down too hard. Okay, that had hurt. In terms of all the insults he had received over time from the blonde bully, this was far from the worst. In fact, he was pretty sure it had been used before. But in terms of the insults he had received from her over the last few weeks, this was an almost impressive leap backwards. Sure, he had been being an idiot and had probably asked for some sort of mean comment—she was still Chloé after all, he’d better not forget that—but insulting his prospective career was really unnecessary.

“Right. Sorry,” he had said as he bit the inside of his cheek and looked down at the floor to try to mask his disappointment. _I should leave_ , he had immediately thought. He had told himself—and her, more or less—that he wouldn’t tolerate that kind of treatment anymore. He was done being bullied. He didn’t need this.

And yet leaving felt wrong. He had brought on the situation after all. It wasn’t solely Chloé attacking him. He had stuck his nose into her personal choices, something he really should’ve known better to do. He was like a kid sticking his hand in the flame. It looked dangerous, everyone told him it was dangerous, the residual heat really should’ve been enough of a hint, but no, he just had to go and get himself burned. Sure, maybe this flame had bitten a little harder than it should have, but he was still the one who had stuck his hand in.

So Nathaniel had been standing there, like a moron, arguing with himself over just how much self-respect he ought to have in the moment, when Chloé had uttered the words he had never thought he would hear from her. He switched out his yellow colored pencil for a light blue one as he recalled the way the statement had sounded on her voice.

“Look, I-I’m sorry, I just… It’s been a rough day.”

He had definitely stared at her again then. Like a moron. In case that wasn’t obvious by that point. Chloé on the other hand, was looking down at the floor in something that looked like shame and embarrassment. Ashamed and embarrassed? Chloé? Those were such human emotions. Emotions that he had therefore never even thought to attribute with the queen bee. That tiny bit of hope that he had been trying to deny? No denying it now. There really was a real person with real, _vulnerable_ emotions under all the harsh words, and he was being allowed a glimpse at it.

In that moment—even though he told himself he had no right—a new hope sprouted that he might get to see more.

“It’s okay,” had slipped out of his mouth in the midst of his staring and thinking and hoping. She hadn’t seemed to be convinced with her head hung low and her nails nervously picking at the hem of her sweater. So Nathaniel had forced whatever stupid expression he was wearing off of his face and decided to give her a gentle smile. “Shall we get started?”

Blue eyes had then slowly risen to meet his—tentative, as if waiting for an unpleasant truth to unveil itself. But he remained steady, showing her that it really was okay. After a few seconds, she had nodded and finally let him in.

He had decided it best not to mention the pants again and she had definitely seemed to be on the same page. It was obviously something that was causing her some amount of negativity, or at least it had at some point in the day. He really shouldn’t have pushed the way he did. That was why he coloring now. He felt the need to decompress from the events of the day. Even if they had ended rather smoothly—and even he might say happily—they were still stressful. And he felt bad for prodding into her personal life where he clearly wasn’t welcomed.

He made a mental note not to do that again if possible. He hoped he could keep himself to that. He had to admit, the new prospect of seeing more of the behind-the-scenes Chloé was exciting. It made him want to be nosy. But he also knew that he needed to respect her privacy. She was now without a doubt a real person after all. And as a real person, she deserved that respect. Besides, maybe she would show it to him willingly if he proved himself worthy. Maybe. He’d better not get his hopes up.

_Step 5: If you notice at any point that you are forgetting your worries, daydreaming freely or feeling more creative, curious, excitable, delighted, relaxed or any combination thereof, take a deep breath and enjoy it. Remind yourself that coloring, like dancing or falling in love, does not have a point. It is the point._

Nathaniel took a deep breath and let it out, focusing purely on the sensation of his deep blue colored pencil dragging along the paper. He hadn’t noticed making the switch to that color—just more proof that the therapy was working. The colors themselves didn’t matter. It was just coloring for the sake of coloring. Just like falling in love.

_Step 6: When you don’t feel like it anymore, stop._

* * *

_I never want to stop coloring._

Chloé lay on her back staring up at the canopy above her bed. She hadn’t moved for who knows how long; she was too lost in her thoughts. A more accurate statement would be to say that she was too busy panicking. Silently panicking. Sitting perfectly still and appearing fine on the outside, but a turbulent storm of thoughts and feelings on the inside.

Once again she had almost driven him away. She was lucky that he hadn’t left _again_. She had broken the understanding that they had arrived at and in a moment of worry that he would leave—as he damn well had the right to do—she had crossed the line she had drawn for herself. A line she never thought she’d cross.

She hadn’t even consciously recognized what had happened until he was already gone. The apology had just seemed so _natural_. It had perfectly fit into the inherent flow of the conversation, like the perfect note to complete a previously lacking song. It had slipped right off of her tongue almost by instinct and it wasn’t until she was left alone with her thoughts in the one place that she didn’t have to hide that she realized what she had done.

She had shown weakness to Nathaniel Kurtzberg.

What was really strange about it though was that she couldn’t seem to find it in herself to regret it. If she hadn’t apologized, he might have hated her even more than he already did. Worse yet, he might have left. He could have turned and walked away—for good that time—and she wouldn’t have even blamed him.

Chloé waited for the voice to speak in the back of her mind that had always conducted her before. The one that would tell her that it didn’t matter if he left. That he didn’t matter. That he was replaceable.

But the space normally occupied by that voice was strangely silent. She couldn’t tell herself anymore that she didn’t care if he left. She did. Some small part of her had come to somewhat enjoy their time together and as much as she wished it wasn’t true, she didn’t want it to stop. The artist was slowly loosening up around her more and more. He was more freely expressing his thoughts and opinions almost as one would with a friend, and it…felt amazing. It felt almost _human_. Natural, just like the apology. And new. Very new.

But what was she doing? She couldn’t have these thoughts! These feelings! What was wrong with her? Showing weakness? To _him_!?

Dangerous. The situation she had found herself in was so incredibly dangerous. It was already dangerous at the start when she had needed to hire a tutor. It became even more dangerous when her tutor wasn’t a professional, and even worse: a classmate. And now it was the most dangerous situation she had ever been in. Chloé had slowly dug herself further and further into this hole without even realizing it and now one small mistake and the walls could cave in.

She could still climb out. The hole was deep but the surface wasn’t so far away yet that she couldn’t still escape if she really tried. If she really wanted to.

 _But you don’t want to_ , a new voice said. Unlike the old voice that had always spoken to her, this one washed into her thoughts like a cool refreshing breeze on a hot summer’s day. It was the eye of the storm—a clear moment of peace in the midst of total chaos. Simply put, it made Chloé feel _good_ in her own mind—an experience she had long forgotten. And that in itself brought up a whole new flurry of thoughts.

With a vocal groan, the girl pressed her face into her hands as if they could still the movement of her inner turmoil. She _felt good_ admitting that she didn’t want to get out of this dangerous situation. She _felt good_ apologizing— _showing weakness_ to someone who could destroy her—and her father by extension—with a simple slip of the tongue.

She was so done for and she didn’t even want to stop it. Her rational mind screamed at her to get out before it was too late but she just didn’t. Want. To.

She didn’t want to stop coloring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone doesn't know, stress relief coloring books are a real thing and they are fucking amazing. If you commonly find yourself needing something to calm you down/take your mind off things, I highly recommend investing in one. Anyway, there's your long chapter in apology for my two week absence, hope you enjoyed!


	10. Tough Girl Whose Soul Aches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Your eyes are screaming to be heard,” –Lifehouse, Learn You Inside Out.

“I didn’t put them on for you, you know.”

Nathaniel blinked at the blonde standing before him. This was the line that had greeted him upon arrival at her hotel suite. He knew what she was referring to of course; she had worn the blue jeans again that day. But even as self-centered as Nathaniel knew himself to be sometimes, never had the thought crossed his mind that she might have put them on for him.

“I-I would hope not,” he replied. Her bright brows creased in silent question. “The clothes that you wear should be worn for you, not for anyone else.”

Chloé dropped the tension in her face and shoulders and looked away, sky blue eyes slightly downcast as she seemed to seriously consider his words. _Why?_ he thought. It seemed pretty self-evident to him. Plus, he never would have thought Chloé the type of person to dress for anyone but herself. Nevertheless, there she was, standing in front of him, thoughts completely lost somewhere else because of what he’d said. He cleared his throat.

“May I…come in?” Bright blue darted up to him, having seemingly forgotten his presence.

“Yeah, yeah,” she quickly said, remembering where she was, and stepped aside to let him in. He made his way over to the art table and began unpacking his bag. “So what’s the plan for tonight’s lesson?” she asked as she plopped down into her chair.

“Well, you have a project due next week, right? I was thinking we could get you started on that. Have you given any thought to what you want it to be?”

Chloé shrugged. “I don’t care. Probably some gladioli or something.”

“Have you considered doing something other than flowers?” Cold, sharp blue was suddenly piercing through him.

“No, why?” she asked, the edge in her voice making him feel as though the tip of a dagger sat upon the skin of his neck. He was just about to sit down but suddenly the thought of getting even that inch closer to her was terrifying.

“J-Just wondering,” he said quickly. “You don’t have to, gladioli are fine.” Icy blue narrowed. “More than fine actually, they’re great. Gladioli are lovely flowers. Lovely.” Was he holding his breath? He was definitely holding his breath. Shit, he hadn’t felt this tense around her in a while. He was just so scared of overstepping her boundaries again so soon.

Then those blue eyes rolled at him. “Sit down and breathe, idiot.”

Should he be offended at that? It somehow didn’t feel offensive, almost as if she were calling him an idiot in a sort of playful, friendly way. Was that a thing that she did? With him of all people? Or was it actually supposed to be an insult? Was he just reading way too much into it?

She looked up at him expectantly. Shit. He was still standing. He cleared his throat nervously. “Right. Sorry.” He clumsily sat himself. “So, gladioli. Have you started yet?”

Chloé flicked a few sketches toward him with disinterest. “I’ve drawn a few, but I don’t know.” Nathaniel looked over the three drawings she had sent his way. They weren’t bad by any means, but in his opinion they sort of lacked substance. The addition of color and shading would help that of course, but still… He frowned. He had to admit it. They were just flowers. And based off of how indifferent Chloé felt towards them, he suspected that on some level she felt that too. But there wasn’t a chance in hell that he was going to say that. Again. Especially so soon. God no.

Maybe he could lead her there peacefully somehow.

“What about these don’t you like?” Chloé shrugged and leaned forward, leaning a cheek on her palm. With her other hand, she skimmed white tipped nails along the two-dimensional petals.

“They just don’t seem A worthy.” Wow. Now she was admitting that something she’d produced wasn’t utter perfection. And without hesitation too. Nathaniel made sure to write that down in his mental tally of delightful surprises from Chloé Bourgeois.

“Why not?” he nudged. She scowled down at the drawings for a few seconds before sighing and sitting back in her chair.

“I don’t know. You’re the tutor, you tell me.” Damn. He was going to have to try something else.

He leaned forward on his elbows and chose his words carefully. “I think right now they’re lacking…character. They feel like they need something… _more_. Maybe something _else_.” Was that too direct? Maybe. Probably.

“What, like, a ribbon or something?” Nathaniel cocked his head in thought. That wasn’t exactly what he was going for, but if she really was completely sold on flowers, then maybe ornamentation wasn’t a bad idea.

“Yeah, a ribbon would help. Wrapped up like a bouquet. That alone still wouldn’t be enough though. You’re on the right track, keep thinking.” Chloé stared down at the flowers in what looked like vague thought, but he could tell she really was taking his comments seriously.

“I guess I could…put them somewhere? Like draw stuff around them or something?” She glanced up at him as if seeking approval. He gave it to her with a smile, causing her to look down again.

“Yeah, I think giving them a context is a great idea. If you choose to contextualize the flowers though, you have to decide whether or not they’re the focus of the piece, and if they are, why.” Chloé nodded her understanding as her focus seemed to intensify on the drawings. “Do you have anything in mind? It’s okay if you don’t, we’re still just brainstorming here.”

“Yeah…maybe.” And with that, she picked up a pencil and went to work. In the weeks that he had been working with her, she had proven over and over again that she was very capable of dialing in her efforts to do productive work. And during such times, he had learned that it was best to sit back and let her do her thing for a while. Sometimes he would get out his own things to work on and sometimes he would just sort of shadow her, giving her guiding notes every now and then. This time, he just watched. He watched how she kept her fingers tense around the pencil, a hold that would make her hand cramp up a lot easier than it needed to. But he didn’t say anything on that. It didn’t have to do with her actual artistic ability after all, so it seemed a bit unnecessary. Besides, it had the potential to be taken as an attack on her technique.

He watched how she bent over her work, getting up close and personal with the paper. Those summer sky eyes were intensely focused on the task at hand, blonde brows scrunched together and nose crinkled in a cute concentration scowl that he had come to know was customary for her at times like these. Her free hand reached up to mindlessly comb some platinum hair back behind her ear as it was no doubt being pulled forward due to her posture. His eyes trailed down the path of her very precise hairstyle as it looped back behind her ear and down to her neck. Had she always worn that necklace?

Hanging from her neck was a simple black chain holding a rather tame looking pendant at the end. Tame didn’t really seem like Chloé’s style, but as he thought about it, she had definitely been wearing it for a long time. Possibly since he could remember? At that thought, the first clear image of her he could recall came to mind. The 6-year-old girl had been wearing a black and yellow striped dress with a bumblebee stitched in near the neckline, white leggings underneath, and black flats. Even back then her hair was always pulled up in a tight ponytail, but there was most definitely no necklace.

So when had the necklace become a part of her wardrobe? And why? Why would “I Only Wear Designer Fashion” Chloé accessorize herself with such a plain black pendant? Even her belt was bedazzled. Really, all the way from the color theme to the attitude, “subtle” was very much NOT a word that could be used to describe Chloé Bourgeois.

And yet, here it was, screaming at him loud and clear in the fact that he, the artist with the photographic memory, _had never noticed her necklace._ Sure, there were a lot of things he had never noticed about her before, like how she could actually be a really good student when she wanted to be, or how she could actually admit her faults sometimes. But those were personality traits, not physical descriptors. Personality traits could only be learned by spending time with someone. They weren’t something that could be simply deduced with a two second glance.

But a necklace? Especially one that sat out in the open of her collarbone like that? How could he have missed it?

He took the time now to really burn it into his memory. There wasn’t much to encode though. It was just a glossy black jewel with black wire encasing hanging from a simple black chain. No intricate design, no gaudy details. Just a black pendant. Maybe the jewel itself was some sort of rare, expensive gem. That would make it a little easier to accept that Chloé would wear it. But even then, the necklace itself was so understated it was hard to believe Chloé would even spare a second glance at it so much as dawn it every day.

At least it went with her color scheme.

Oops. Now he was thinking about the blue jeans again. At least now they were under the table, safely tucked away from his view. He had managed to be a lot less creepy that day at school despite the almost constant urge to stare at the young woman’s legs. (It wasn’t his fault he was so attracted to strong colors!) But he still couldn’t seem to go very long without question after question arising in his mind.

_I didn’t put them on for you, you know._

Well of course not, but really, why had she put them on? Why had she chosen to wear them in the first place? And then why had she taken them off? And then why had she decided to put them back on again the next day when they had clearly brought her a good amount of distress? And why did he care so much about Chloé’s decisions concerning PANTS??

Somewhere in the midst of Nathaniel’s questioning, the subject of his thoughts had paused in her drawing. In an aggravated grumble, she eventually asked, “What the hell is bothering you so much?”

The artist blinked with wide owl eyes. “I…uh…nothing.” She rolled those baby blues at him for the second time that day.

“That’s obviously not true. Spit it out.”

“It’s…uh…” Shit. What should he do? Nathaniel scratched the back of his head nervously. “It’s none of my business, really. I shouldn’t…” He trailed off and began gnawing at the inside of his cheek, teal eyes darting anywhere around the room but never at her. But even without looking, he could feel her heavy stare on him.

A silence stretched between them, broken by yet another surprise from Chloé Bourgeois. Really, at this point he should stop being surprised when she surprised him.

“I’ll answer whatever your question is…if you answer mine.” Teal slowly fell back to blue as it dawned on him what she was proposing.

Not only was she opening herself up to what could be an extremely personal and revealing question, but she also wanted to know about _him_. He felt warmth in his face and knew his cheeks were probably gathering a strong pinkish hue.

“Okay,” he eventually responded. “What do you want to know?”

Chloé lightly ground her teeth in thought. Okay, so it wasn’t like she had had some specific question looming over her. He wasn’t really sure how to take that. On the one hand, that meant that she wasn’t proposing this exchange because she was really curious about something in particular. But on the other hand, it also meant that she had enough of a general curiosity of him to propose it at all. Or, then again, maybe she did have something in particular that she was curious about and she was just trying to figure out how to phrase it. Maybe he was just thinking too much again.

“What made you think I deserved a chance?”

Nathaniel’s thoughts slowed to a stop as he understood the gravity of her question.

She was referring to the conversation they had had weeks ago when he’d made his deal with her to be nice. Had that really been hanging on her this whole time? And…had she really not believed that she deserved it? That there really existed anything that she didn’t deserve? He stared at her in stunned silence as he merely tried to wrap his head around the fact that she was asking at all. And then he definitely stared longer as he tried to formulate an answer.

“I…think that everyone does,” he said slowly. Even as he said it though, he already felt guilty. Chloé’s expression added to that guilt. Tired. She appeared tired. Tired because she was already worn out by making excuses in her own mind for what he had said. Tired because she had already come to the conclusion that something so simple couldn't explain his statement. Tired because she had no way to make him tell her the truth. Her icy blue eyes alone expressed the unspoken words he knew were sitting behind her tongue: You know what I mean.

His stomach rolled uncomfortably in his stomach, coaxing him to be honest with her. “You keep proving me wrong. I had all these ideas about who you are and from the first day here, you’ve been a constant surprise, showing me how wrong I was and how much more to you there is than just…” he glanced nervously at her and prayed that this next comment didn’t upset her, “…the school bully.”

It seemed that now it was her turn to stare at him in stunned silence.

Oh dear. He had really just said that. There was no taking it back now. Oh no. Now all that was left to do was to sit and wait for her eventual response. He couldn’t even begin to guess what it would be.

“What’s your question?”

Oh. Well he probably could have guessed that. Wait, was that really it? She wasn’t going to say anything about it? The woman sat there with a perfectly neutral expression, patiently awaiting whatever came her way as if he hadn’t just called her a bully and basically implied that he hadn’t previously thought of her as a normal human being with depth. Sure, okay. That was fine. He could deal with that. He really wasn’t sure he wanted to know how she felt about it anyway.

“Why did you put the pants back on?”

There were a few moments in calm silence before she answered. “I decided to start dressing for myself.”

“Who were you dressing for before?”

Blue eyes slowly crawled up to meet teal and pink lips curved upwards ever so slightly at the edges. “You only get one question.”

“I’ll give you another one,” he offered, completely serious. He wanted to. He really wanted to. The curiosity was eating him alive. Who on Earth would the mighty Chloé Bourgeois ever dress for? Her father? Somehow even that didn’t seem right.

She sighed with a light smile. “Maybe another time,” she said. “For now, tell me what you think of this.” And then she handed him the sketch she had been working on. Oh right. The art. The whole reason he was there. Focus, Nathaniel, jeez.

With one last lingering look at her bittersweet blue eyes, he took the piece from her hand.

The drawing no longer featured a mere collection of gladioli. Chloé had decided to add that ribbon after all, making the gladioli appear in a sort of wrapped up bouquet. But that wasn’t all. She had indeed contextualized the flowers, and he could tell that she had seriously taken into account what he’d said about the flowers being the main subject. The gladioli were focused in the center sitting atop a fluffy patch of grass. And that patch of grass rested before an unmarked gravestone.

The flowers were still beautiful and full, implying that they had been left at the grave rather recently. Whether Chloé had intended it or not, which really at this point he should just assume that she had, the piece evoked the classic idea of “gone, but not forgotten.” With color and shading, he had no doubt that Madame Kahlo would love it. It was hauntingly beautiful. Happy and healthy with just a small touch of sadness.

He looked up at Chloé. She was just sitting there waiting for his notes, acting as though she hadn’t just handed him a window into her life.

He had a feeling he knew who she had dressed for.

Simone Bourgeois.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently I really prefer writing from Nath's point of view. Sorry for the lack of Chloe narration in this chapter :( Also apparently the word "gladiolus" is the singular name of that flower and "gladioli" is the plural. This whole time I thought the flower was called a "gladiola" and the plural was "gladiolus". Lol oops XD


	11. Stardust To Remember You By

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Your albatross, let it go.” –Bastille, Weight of Living Pt. 1

Chloé stared at the freshly cleaned blue jeans now hanging up in her closet. They were her only pair. If she was really going to make this a permanent change, she would have to buy more. _If_ she was going to make this a permanent change. She glanced at her pristine white pants. The urge to go back to what was familiar was nearly overwhelming. She looked to the blue jeans again, this time reaching out and rubbing the fabric between a finger and thumb. The urge to don this beautiful color was even stronger.

Still, part of her felt like a traitor.

She huffed a small, heartless laugh as she recalled her parting conversation with the artist. Somehow he had been spot on.

Just as he’d stepped out the door after tutoring that night, the redhead had spun back around to face her. “Can I ask you another question?” She had blinked up at him, not yet accustomed to the genuine curiosity he had repeatedly shown in her life.

“Do I get to ask you one too?”

Chloé smiled as she recalled how he had granted her one of those beautiful warm smiles that she was growing to appreciate more and more. His teal gaze could be ice cold at times, but in that moment, the ice had melted to resemble the warm summer waters of Greece.

“Of course.” With his hands stuffed in his pockets, the artist had leaned a shoulder against the door frame, displaying a casual sort of demeanor that she found herself hoping he might adopt around her more often. “Would you like to go first?”

After a moment of thought, Chloé settled on something that had begun bothering her merely days prior. “Why do you wear so many clashing colors?”

He blinked at her. And blinked. And then looked down at his clothes—grey converse, purple jeans, red T-shirt, and grey over-shirt—and blinked. And then finally blinked at her again. She rolled her eyes.

“I just don’t get it,” she had continued. “You’re an artist. You should know how different colors interact better than most people. But the red and the purple are so??? And what even _is_ the black symbol on your shirt? You’ve been wearing it since like 8 th grade but NOBODY knows what it is!” He blinked at her some more, eliciting an exasperated sigh. “I just don’t understand how such a talented artist can wear such clashing colors.”

A new smile had crept to his lips in that moment. It was tiny and, coupled with raised red eyebrows and widened teal eyes, it seemed almost unsure. After a second, a rosy blush had joined the ensemble as well and now in hindsight, Chloé finally realized why. She had complimented him—truly complimented him—by referring to him as a talented artist. That was probably the first time that had ever happened, and just like her apology the day before, it had slipped out of her so naturally she hadn’t even noticed it. No wonder he had stared at her in such a way.

Next thing she knew, he had been laughing. It was just a small, gentle chuckle, but it shook his whole body and brought a healthy pink hue to his cheeks and she couldn’t help but think it beautiful how he laughed with his whole being, even when the laugh was so small. “Well,” he had begun, “as for the colors…” he had paused to think a moment before shrugging. “I just like how strong they are I guess. I could coordinate my outfits more, but I mean, I’ve already got bright red hair. I’m basically going to clash with anything I wear that isn’t black, white, or grey. So I may as well wear colors that I really like. I don’t really care about adhering to common fashion standards anyway. And as for the symbol on my T-shirt, it’s from an old rock band called Magma. I’m not surprised no one recognizes it, they were…kind of weird,” he finished with a shrug.

Chloé had stared at him in disbelief before her honest thoughts had bubbled up to the surface without her permission. “You are such a fucking hipster.”

The statement settled down around them like a softly descending blanket, causing Nathaniel to slowly dissolve into a fit of giggles right before her eyes while her face quickly set aflame. She groaned in hindsight embarrassment. She still couldn’t believe she had actually said that to him. Sure, she had thought it a million times before—he was a damn poster boy for Hot Topic for crying out loud!—but to actually say it to him in such a familiar manner? She wasn’t even sure who she was anymore. She hadn’t felt so at ease around a single person—so willing to drop her filters and be _herself_ —in so long.

Eventually his laughter had calmed down. “I know I am,” he had said, still giggling. “Thank you.”

She had rolled her eyes, trying to pretend she wasn’t mortified at the words that had slipped from her tongue. “Whatever, it’s your turn.”

That was when the tone of the moment had taken a drastic turn. With a deep breath, Nathaniel had completely rid himself of laughter, and a more serious expression emerged upon his face. Those teal eyes had stopped glittering in joy and were instead completely solid—even sad. He hadn’t even asked the question yet, but Chloé _knew_. She knew he was going to ask about her, and thus she found herself immediately overcome with a sense of dread. Nathaniel pursed his lips. She wondered if he had seen her fear. She wondered if that was what had led him to phrase his question the way he had.

“You don’t have to answer this…if you don’t want to,” he had begun. Chloé had swallowed a lump in her throat. That kind of sensitivity confirmed what was coming. He hesitated a moment, but asked the question nonetheless. “The person you used to dress for… Was it your mom?”

Chloé wasn’t sure what sort of expression she had worn in that moment, but whatever it was, it must have answered his question. Because she knew she hadn’t spoken after that. Her mouth had clamped itself shut, and it wouldn’t open no matter how badly she wanted to answer him. But he got the message anyway. Her reaction must have screamed it loud and clear because the artist had almost immediately looked down at his shoes in guilt.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I shouldn’t have brought it up.” In that moment, Chloé had pressed her lips together so as to hide their trembling. She forced herself to keep still and wait. The second he was gone she would be able to take her shower and cry it out. But for that moment, she’d had to remain calm.

Teal eyes had come back up to her, desperately searching for a sign that she was okay. So she had given it to him. Years of practice had taught her the perfect bittersweet smile that she knew fooled people into believing she was sad, but not broken. She was glad he was no different. He still looked guilty, but at least he would walk away and rest easy that night.

She was just about to wish him a goodnight when he had spoken again. “Not that it matters, but…the blue really does look good on you.”

Her fake smile had managed to give way to a genuine one then—though it was still small. “I know,” she had replied, pulling some of her stored confidence into her words. He had smiled back, seemingly relieved to see her act more like herself. She decided she had better get him out of there before it was gone. “Goodnight, Nathaniel.”

“Goodnight, Chloé.”

After that, Chloé had taken her usual shower to calm down, eaten dinner, and now she was here, getting ready to go to bed and staring at the pants in her closet wondering if she could justify such a simple change.

She knew, of course, that there was nothing wrong with wearing blue jeans. Nothing wrong aside from disrupting a lifelong color scheme originally set by her mother. Chloé sighed and shut her closet doors. Even she saw how ridiculous it was to live by a bumblebee dress that had been picked out for her 6-year-old self. But her mother had liked the way the colors worked on her and had thus kept them as she picked out Chloé’s outfits thereafter. And so, when she was gone, Chloé had just…continued to dress that way. But now she was nearly 18 years old, realizing that she might actually want to branch out, and feeling like doing so would disrespect the memory of her late mother.

As she finally flicked off the lights and crawled into bed, she wondered just how long it would take for her to be able to move on without feeling guilty.

* * *

Akuma duty.

Never mind that she had a Master’s in International Political Economics and a Bachelor’s in Journalism. Nope. That week, Abigail’s editor had chosen to put her on damn akuma duty.

What the fuck.

Abigail pinched the bridge of her nose to try to alleviate the tension building behind her eyes as she rewound the footage from that night’s akuma attack for the millionth time. Really, writing a compelling article on a stupid run of the mill teenage hormonal villain was basically impossible and it angered her that their weekly paper even had an akuma section. But hey, the people want what they want. And if the people wanted coverage of the superhero activities in Paris that were _literally the same fucking thing every time_ …then so be it.

But really, couldn’t Christiane have given this job to one of the interns? She would much rather be covering the mayor’s upcoming dinner party. Especially since no one seemed to be talking about the implications of its date.

Abigail typed up her last words on _The Narrator_ before sending the article off to her editor with a sigh of relief. That monstrosity was finally over with and she could sleep…at two in the morning. Oh well. It wasn’t the first time it had happened, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. Abigail had been a night owl since she could remember. The night air just seemed to flow through her lungs differently than that of the morning. It filled her with energy, creativity, and motivation while the mornings always seemed to suppress that. She wrote better at night, and even if it meant losing sleep, she would take that over doing less than her best any day.

She wished it didn’t have to come at the suffering of her wife though. Lorraine, the light sleeper that she was, inevitably turned to face her as she crawled into bed that night. Abigail—cold from being anywhere but that bed for so long—was immediately wrapped in her wife’s warmth pulling her into a sweet embrace.

“What were you working on?” she whispered drowsily.

“Akuma,” Abigail answered, failing to keep the slight hint of disdain from her tongue.

“I’m sorry,” her wife mumbled.

“Eh, work is work.”

“You would rather be working on something else though.” Abigail smiled at the half asleep woman beside her. Even in such a subdued state of awareness, Lorraine was perceptive as ever.

“Yeah,” she admitted.

“What is it?”

“You sure you don’t want to sleep?”

She shook her head and cuddled a little closer. “I want to talk to my wife first.”

Abigail placed a kiss against the top of her head with a smile before beginning. “I’ve been writing an article in my free time about the mayor’s upcoming dinner party.”

Lorraine hummed in thought. “For the hotel investors?”

“Yeah, that one.”

“He holds it every year doesn’t he?”

“Yeah, but this time…” Abigail trailed off. Lorraine waited patiently for her to continue. “The date is set for the anniversary of Simone’s death.” Abigail could feel Lorraine’s muscles slightly tense, as if mention of that name had fully woken her.

“Oh dear…” she whispered, her voice sounding ten times more lucid than before. Abigail just nodded. She knew she didn’t have to explain any more than that.

Nearly nine years had passed since Simone Bourgeois, wife of André Bourgeois and mother of Chloé Bourgeois, was killed in a tragic car accident. In mere moments, Paris’ most beloved mother had been lost to all. The city watched as the family mourned and many wondered if André would step down from his position as mayor. None would have blamed him if he did. But time went on, and the mayor eventually addressed them again, calmly notifying them that although the loss of his wife would be difficult to get through, he would not leave the people of Paris. All the while, his daughter, just a nine year old at the time, had stood to the side with a neutral expression, one that—though subtle—had never truly left her face since.

Each year thereafter, the mayor was never seen on the anniversary of her death. Many speculated that he likely just wanted to mourn in peace, and a silent agreement seemed to be made among the people to grant it to him. Such had been the way of life in the Parisian year for the previous eight years. And then, all of a sudden…

“To go from no publicity to extreme publicity seemingly overnight…” Lorraine left that thought unfinished, unsure of what to think about it.

“Exactly. And no one is talking about it. Maybe it’s because everyone is just too afraid to mention her death again, but…”

“But journalists don’t have hearts,” her wife remarked playfully. Abigail chuckled.

“That’s right. We’re all cold, heartless writers who can’t mind our own damn business.” She sighed. “I don’t know, maybe I’m just reading too much into it. Could be a fluke.”

Lorraine thought on that a moment before responding. “Maybe he simply feels that it’s time to move on.”

“Could be…” Abigail gnawed on the inside of her cheek as another thought struck her. “But what about Chloé?”

“What about Chloé?”

“What if Chloé isn’t ready to move on?”

“What do you mean?”

Abigail shifted so that she fully faced her wife. In the small bit of moonlight trickling in through the cracked curtains, she could see glistening brown eyes staring back at her. “I mean, Chloé has to be present for the dinner—at least, she always has been before. What if she isn’t ready to face all those people on such a day?” Lorraine finally hummed in understanding.

“Then it promises to be a very difficult night for her.” Brown eyes met teal in the darkness of the night, both swimming with complementary thoughts, but neither ready to voice them. Both wondered about their son. About whether he knew anything on the matter. About whether he would find out. And most of all, about whether he would make a difference.

“Do you think she feels the same way?” Abigail whispered, almost too scared to ask.

“I haven’t seen her,” Lorraine answered. “But…he is Nathaniel,” she said with a smirk. Her wife reflected it.

“That’s true; we did raise one handsome boy.” She settled herself into the pillows, just about ready to go to sleep.

“As of late he’s seemed to be more of a handsome man.”

Abigail groaned, eliciting a giggle from her other half. “Don’t say that, I’m not ready for him to grow up.” Lorraine’s giggles faded into a sigh.

“Neither am I. But it’s too late. He’ll be graduating soon and going off to art school.”

Shoving her face into her wife’s shoulder for comfort, she asked, “Why on Earth did we tell him he could go to America?” Lorraine raised her hand to stroke Abigail’s hair.

“Because he was accepted, love.”

“ _Chicago_ ,” she spat. “He just _had_ to pick the city with the highest crime rate, didn’t he?”

“Hey,” Lorraine said, jabbed a finger in her ribs in annoyance, “we looked it up, remember?”

“I knooowwww, but it’s still in the top _thirty_.” She sighed and pulled her wife closer for comfort. “I just don’t want him to go.”

“I know. But we have to stop making excuses. He’s going to follow his dreams.” Abigail smiled. She knew that much was true. The kid was too much like her. At least he planned to come back. She on the other hand had left England and never looked back.

“I wonder what Chloé is doing after she graduates,” she pondered. She immediately received a poke in the nose as punishment.

“Stop that,” Lorraine scolded. “He doesn’t even know he likes her yet. Let’s not go there.” Abigail rose so she could kiss the finger on her nose.

“I can’t help it, I’m a journalist. Nosy is my business.” Her wife huffed in mock annoyance.

“Just shut up and go to sleep.” She laughed and pressed a kiss to Lorraine’s cheek.

“Goodnight, my love.”

“Goodnight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy lesbians are happy.  
> In other news, I'm not dead! It was a pretty close call near the end of the semester though. Now I'm back and I am hoping to take advantage of my small break to get the next few chapters lined up before school takes over my life again. Wish me luck! <3


	12. Somewhere Along in the Bitterness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You put on quite a show, you really had me going.” –Rihanna, Take a Bow.

Nathaniel watched as Chloé successfully blended one shade of pink into the next on one of her flowers. Rather than working on the small scale at the desk, today she had an easel set up with a large canvas for her project. She sat directly in front of it while Nathaniel sat behind her left shoulder so he could watch without getting in the way. Her eye for color had really come a long way in the weeks they had been working together. With acrylic paint especially, she had shown magnificent growth in her ability to fade and darken colors along the contours of the petals she worked with. Nathaniel wasn’t even sure his tutoring was needed anymore. He rarely had to give any serious critiques at this point, and really only gave her occasional guidance. He had no doubt that she would soon have her A and he wouldn’t have to come tutor her anymore.

Whoa.

That was a weird thought.

He scowled as he tried to figure out when exactly the tutoring sessions had become such a normal part of his life that he hadn’t considered their end. The last month of the school year was fast approaching and yet he had somehow gotten it in his head that he would be coming over to Chloé’s suite every day for the next year at least. He would be on a different CONTINENT in four months and even still he couldn’t imagine not being Chloé’s art tutor.

How strange.

He was just about to start postulating as to why that might be happening when his student interrupted his train of thought. “Well?” Nathaniel sat up from his slightly slouched position as his attention was pulled back to the present.

“What?”

She turned to glare at him. “What do you mean ‘what’? What do you think?” She gestured impatiently toward the canvas. Oh right. The art. The reason he was there.

“Sorry, I was…zoning out,” he answered, unable to think of a convincing lie.

Bright blue eyes rolled at him. “Well stop. This is an important project.”

“Right,” he said, leaning forward to examine her work. “Sorry.”

“Whatever.” She sighed as she stood for the first time in probably hours, reaching her arms up above her head in a long stretch. “Just tell me what you think.”

Nathaniel tried to ignore the way her midriff had become exposed by her stretching and forced his eyes back to the art. Again, the reason he was there.

Set upon her canvas was the scene she had drawn for him just a few days prior depicting a gravestone decorated with fresh flowers, only now it was much bigger and featured color. The gladioli had been filled in with lovely pink shading that really brought them to life and the ribbon holding them together was a smooth, glossy violet.

“I think it looks nice. Do you plan on coloring the rest of it?” So far the bouquet was the only part of the ensemble that featured color.

Her glossy pink lips pursed as she scrutinized the painting from a few steps back. She crossed one arm across her chest in a mindless stretch as she contemplated. She seemed hesitant. “Do I have to?”

Nathaniel studied the piece. It clearly wasn’t finished in its current state, but he had to admit, the flowers being the only pop of color did have a certain charm. It would surely solidify their role as the focus of the scene. She would have to give the rest of it grayscale detail of course, but it could work. On the other hand, she could take the piece in a million different directions if she chose to color the rest of it. The grass could be a vibrant green or a more subdued one. The sky could be bright and sunny or it could be dark and gloomy. Hell, she could make the surrounding world be on fire if she wanted to. He imagined she was at least aware that she had options, since she had asked, but it most certainly wasn’t his place to decide.

“What are you seeing here?” he decided to ask.

“Excuse me?” The edge in her tone and the flick of a blonde eyebrow were not lost on him.

“I mean, what are you picturing in this scene? Right now, it has the potential to go anywhere you want to take it, so…take it somewhere.”

He sat back in his chair and watched as Chloé sucked in a large breath of air and let it out slowly. She continued her mindless stretches and gently swayed as she stared at her work. Nathaniel couldn’t help but smile at the way her intensely focused expression contrasted with the loosening up of her muscles. The wrinkled forehead, narrowed blue eyes, scrunched up nose, and frowning pink lips didn’t seem to go with the stretching arms and the way she rocked her weight from one foot to the other and back again.

Her long, platinum ponytail swung to and fro behind her, softly following the ever changing course it was placed on. It wasn’t until then that Nathaniel realized her hair hung down far enough that she could probably sit on it if she tried. How on Earth had it gotten that long? Sure, he had fairly long hair for a guy, but whenever it got past his shoulders, he had to get it cut. Couldn’t stand having it so long, it was too much work. And yet, Chloé’s hair…

Both of them jumped as the alarm telling Nathaniel to go home blared from his pocket. Chloé checked her own phone in confusion.

“Wow,” she said as he turned off the alarm. “I didn’t realize it was already 6.”

“Me neither,” he chuckled. Nathaniel stood and began slipping his papers back into his schoolbag. Chloé likewise began reorganizing the supplies that were strewn about. “Your project is coming along really well. I daresay it might get you that A you’re after. Just keep thinking about what sort of a scene you want to set, and we’ll talk about it more tomorrow.”

Chloé’s eyes widened and her back straightened, as if suddenly remembering something. “Oh, right! Don’t come tomorrow.”

Nathaniel cocked his head in curiosity and slipped the strap of his bag onto his shoulder. “Why not?”

Chloé waved her hands around her head in an exasperated gesture. “I’m having a dress fitted for my father’s stupid dinner thing.” She went back to reorganizing materials, this time in a much more callous manner.

“Is that…a bad thing?” he asked, noting her sudden irritation.

“Yes!” she snapped. “No,” she quickly mended. “I don’t know. It’s fine.” It clearly wasn’t.

“Are you sure?”

She turned toward him and put her hands on her hips. “Is there a reason you ask so many questions?” Nathaniel shrugged in response, causing her to roll those beautiful blue eyes again. “It’s fine, really. I just wish someone would have told me about it sooner. I only just found out about the dinner party this afternoon, so I had to hastily set up an appointment and now that’s conflicting with tutoring, and the whole thing is just so sudden and I don’t even like these stupid dinner parties in the first place and now this one is…” Though she had been speaking at a rapid fire pace, Chloé suddenly slowed to a halt. Her brow furrowed and her lips pressed together for a moment. Nathaniel waited, wondering if she was going to continue her sentence. Eventually she just sighed and turned her attention back to the art supplies on her desk. “Whatever,” she said. “It’s fine.”

Nathaniel gnawed on the inside of his cheek as he watched her meticulously reorganize tubes of paint until they were in proper rainbow order. Whatever was going on with the dinner party and her dress was obviously not fine, and if she were anyone else Nathaniel would probably continue to ask about it until she talked about what was bothering her. But she wasn’t anyone else. She was Chloé Bourgeois, and he knew that the amount of talking he had gotten out of her already was damn near miraculous. He had already been bitten by prying too far into her private life, and though their small question exchange the previous Friday had shown that he might not always be punished for inquiring, he still thought he should probably play it safe when she was so clearly in a bad mood.

“Alright, then I’ll see you Wednesday.” She responded with an absent-minded wave of her hand, not sparing him so much as a glance. He stood there one last moment, reluctant to leave her like that, but turned and left nonetheless.

Nathaniel sighed as he shut the suite door behind him. He ran his fingers back through his hair with a deep breath and began his walk down the hallway to the elevator. What was he doing, worrying about Chloé like this? Sure, so she was a human now. Okay, scratch that. She had always been a human, but now he knew. So, it didn’t change anything. She was still the same Chloé Bourgeois she had always been before. The same Chloé Bourgeois who had bullied him for years. The same Chloé Bourgeois who had gotten him akumatized—had gotten half their class akumatized, actually. He never would have spent his time feeling concern for her before, and he shouldn’t now.

If only she hadn’t looked at him like that on Friday. He had seen it the second the question had escaped his lips. No, before that actually. He hadn’t even asked her yet, but she had _known_. Her entire demeanor had changed in an instant to absolute _dread_. As soon as the question was out, Nathaniel’s stomach had sunk and his throat had closed up. In that moment, not only had he known that she wasn’t okay, but he had caused it, and worst of all, he could do nothing about it for fear of making it worse. A part of him—bigger than he would have expected—had cursed him all night for leaving her. For so clearly bringing up something so painful and then just walking away. But he had also seen the look in her eyes when she had said goodnight. She didn’t want him to stick around. She had wanted to be alone, just like she did now.

Nathaniel was halfway down the hall—in the middle of wondering if Chloé had anyone that she confided in or if she normally dealt with things on her own—when a ding sounded ahead of him, signaling the opening of the elevator doors.

The second his eyes fell on the figure behind the parting doors, Nathaniel knew he was going to miss dinner.

At first glance, he thought the man was Chloé’s butler. He had spent enough time around the suite to know his look: tall stature, smooth combed back black hair, light hazel eyes, long nose, thin mustache, polite smile, and always adorned in a formal suit. But he very soon realized that this man was _different_. He was a bit taller than Simon, his skin was a ghostly white, his smile was sinister, his suit was glossy, as if made of rubber that had been melded to his body, and most telling of all, the upper half of his face was concealed by a sleek black mask.

Akuma.

Nathaniel didn’t spare the villain a second glance. Later he wouldn’t even be able to remember making the conscious decision to run back the way he had come. He just _ran_. Within seconds he was back in Chloé’s suite, slamming the door shut behind him and locking it.

“What the hell are you doing!?”

He turned, ready to tell her what he had seen, but the words died the second he saw her.

Nathaniel’s eyes met those of a confused and fury stricken Chloé Bourgeois as she stepped out of her bathroom. Her black heels had been ditched along with the yellow sweater, leaving her in only the blue jeans and the black and white striped short-sleeved shirt. But Nathaniel barely registered her minimalist attire. He was too distracted by her hair.

 _Her hair is down_ , his inner Captain Obvious said. _Her hair is never down._ In all his years of interacting with Chloé Bourgeois, even among her various wardrobe changes, never had she been seen in public without her signature ponytail. Chloé’s golden locks had eternally been styled in a tight, well-kept ponytail, featuring smooth hair in the front that parted in the middle and looped back behind her ears. Her hair had grown to be longer and longer, but never had its style changed. The Lady Wifi incident years back had even revealed that Chloé wouldn’t change her hairstyle to cosplay her favorite superhero. It was always pulled back in that hair tie. Always.

Except now.

In that moment, Chloé’s hair was held by nothing. It fell free, a cascading waterfall of sun kissed blonde, straight and smooth and perfect. It hung down past her shoulders, her chest, her waist, her hips, finally tapering off right before it hit her upper thigh, a steady stream of platinum silk flowing down the length of her entire upper half.

Nathaniel swallowed a sudden lump in his throat and had to remind himself to breath. Inspiration often hit him in a myriad of ways and in that moment, it was a freight train slamming right into him from the front.

No longer could he truthfully say that he had never wanted to draw Chloé Bourgeois.

* * *

“Nathaniel!” With the incessant snapping of her fingers, the redhead standing before her finally blinked and seemed to come back to reality after staring at her blankly for what seemed like hours. Right after barging into her suite unwelcomed and unannounced, no less. “What the hell are you doing here!?”

“There’s…um…” He was still staring at her like an idiot, his tongue seemingly numb. He raised his arm in a vague gesture toward the door. She waited for him to finish his sentence. He didn’t.

“Nathaniel!”

“Akuma!” he finally blurted. He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. “There’s an akuma out in the hallway.”

As if on cue, the doorknob was suddenly shaking from someone on the other side trying to open it, only to find it locked. “Madame Bourgeoooiiiiis,” an eerie voice called, “the help has arriiiiived.”

Teal eyes locked with her own blue, both mouths locked shut. The akuma was there for her.

She really should have been used to this by now. She was the single most commonly targeted individual for akuma attacks. She had been victimized by these monsters on a nearly regular basis ever since they had begun appearing years ago, and yet they still managed to scare her every time.

A knock sounded at the door. “Madame Bourgeooiiiis,” the voice sung again, “don’t you know it’s impolite to ignore peoplllleee?” The doorknob shook again. “Don’t force me to break down the door, Madame.” An icy sharp tone suddenly took to the akuma’s voice. “You won’t like me without my manners.”

“What did you do?” Nathaniel whispered, a slight growl clearly present in his tone. The boy had been staring at her with a blank, almost dumbfounded expression only seconds before, but whatever it was that was doing that must have been pushed completely out of mind because all that was left staring now was cold, seething fury.

Chloé stared at him, her body suddenly numb with fear. Not from the akuma, from _him_.

“Madame Bourgeois, my patience will not last if you continue to act so rudely much longeerrrr.”

“What did you _do_?!” he asked again, this time louder and more clearly angry. Chloé quickly shook her head.

“Nothing!”

“Bullshit, you turned someone into an akuma _again_! What the fuck did you do this time!?”

“I don’t know, I swear! Akumas just come after me all the time, it’s not my—,”

“ _Not your fault?_ Are you fucking serious right now!?”

“Of course I am! It’s not my fault that monsters are constantly after me!”

“Yes it is—!” Nathaniel stopped mid-yell to turn his head toward the balcony. She followed to see a beautiful young woman with midnight pigtails and a cherry red spotted suit landing on her balcony, right behind the black cat.

“Ladybug!” she exclaimed as she made her way to the balcony. She immediately encased the superhero in a tight hug, taking comfort in the familiar scent of vanilla buttercream and the safety of her strong magical armor. “I was so scared, please save me!”

“C-Chloé!” Ladybug stuttered, presumably in embarrassment at being hugged by her. She always acted that way, pressing her palms lightly against her shoulders to move her away enough to look into her eyes. Had Ladybug’s eyes always been that deep ocean color of blue? It sparkled fantastically in the clear light of day. “We need to hurry and get you somewhere safe. We believe the Mr. Nice Guy will be here any moment.

“He’s already here,” Nathaniel’s voice answered from behind her. Chloé tried not to cringe at the annoyed undertone that still ran through his voice.

“Nathaniel?” the duo asked in tandem, both looking up in confusion. Chloé didn’t miss the quick glance that they shared, as if having their own secret conversation on a mental wavelength that she wasn’t tuned into.

Oh no.

They would never tell, right? Well, of course Ladybug wouldn’t, but could she really trust Chat Noir?

“H-He’s only here because—!” Chloé had never been happier to have the door to her room busted in than she was in that moment. She really didn’t know what sort of excuse to give.

“It doesn’t matter, come on!” Ladybug shouted. Chloé gasped as she was effortlessly swept up off her feet. With one arm holding her tight, Ladybug flew through the streets of Paris, tossing out her yoyo and swinging behind it with practiced ease. Chloé kept her arms tightly wrapped around the superhero’s shoulders, feigning fright but in actuality reveling in the sensation of the wind rushing through her hair and feeling safer than ever pressed against the thin layer of armored fabric covering her strong, muscled body. This was the one part about being a regular akuma victim for which Chloé found herself actually thankful.

The thrill was over too soon, and Chloé was forced to come down from her high as she softly set foot on the roof of an industrial building somewhere on the fringe of the city. In her dazed state, she vaguely registered Ladybug turning her attention back the way they came. Chloé followed her line of sight to see Chat Noir bounding in behind them with a redhead in his arms.

Oh right.

Nathaniel was there.

The cat landed with ten times less grace than Ladybug had and smiled awkwardly as he helped the artist regain his footing. Both of them seemed to be a bit red in the face and Chloé wondered what had happened on their trip to make them blush like that.

“Thank you…” Nathaniel mumbled in a nervous sort of voice that resembled the way he had always used to act around her. Weird, she wasn’t used to seeing him look so shy anymore.

The sidekick nervously scratched the back of his head and stood up straight, even puffing his chest out a little bit to look strong. “No problem!” he said with that silly looking heroic smile—the one that he always wore whenever Ladybug thanked him for saving her. Not that it happened often.

“Chat Noir,” Ladybug called in a mostly serious but slightly teasing tone. Chloé glanced at her to see the tiniest smirk appear upon her perfect pink lips. The cat flinched and turned toward her, suddenly tense.

“Yes, My Lady?”

The spotted hero stalked up to her partner with her arms crossed, a sultry sway in her hips. She placed a single finger under his chin and scratched, eliciting a small purr from the other. Chloe couldn't help but shift uncomfortably. She felt like she was witnessing a very intimate exchange. “Let’s go, kitty. We still have an akuma to take care of.”

Chat Noir smoothly snatched the hand from under his chin and placed a kiss upon its fingers. “Yes, My Lady.”

The two of them turned to leave, staff and yoyo at the ready. “Wait!” Chloé called, suddenly realizing what was going on. “You can’t just leave me here!” The two of them turned to her.

“Chloé, we have to go fight the akuma,” Ladybug replied, a mild scowl on her face.

“But I’m completely exposed up here! What if he finds me!?” Chat Noir frowned.

“Chloé, we’re going to do our best to keep him as far away from y—,”

“Your _best_? And how good has your _best_ been in the past!? This is insane, I’m not safe up here—!”

“CHLOÉ, SHUT UP!”

Everything stilled, leaving only the distant sounds of the city to fill the air. The two heroes standing before her stared wide-eyed at the man behind her, but she refused to turn around. She didn’t want to see him. She didn’t want to see those eyes—those sharp, terrifying teal eyes. She could already hear his voice—that angry, wicked, tormenting voice. That was enough to conjure the memory of his face. That face with the cold teal eyes and the jagged black mask and the poisonous purple skin and the sadistic white grin. She couldn’t look. She couldn’t.

The echoed ringing of his voice died down before Ladybug spoke softly and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “We’ll come back for you as soon as the battle’s over. Stay here and stay safe.” Chloé nodded, wondering what sort of terrified expression she must have been wearing to conjure such a look of sympathy from the spotted hero. She was granted an appreciative smile, and then Ladybug and Chat Noir were gone, leaving Chloé stranded on a roof with the Evillustrator.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaaaand tomorrow I go back to school. Wish me luck. I hope to keep up on my writing this time, but who knows how that will go (I'm sorry). Hope you enjoyed this one! <3


	13. My Heart is Gold, But My Hands are Cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I see your true colors shining through.” –Cyndi Lauper, True Colors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a bitch to write, and it's been burning a hole in my soul for the past four weeks but It's finally ready and I hope the length makes up for the wait. I love you all.

Chloé waited until the red and black forms of the heroes of Paris were well out of sight, completely faded into the distance, before turning to face her only company. She knew of course that what she would see would be Nathaniel—sweet, innocent, shy Nathaniel who’s grown a little more handsome and a little more snarky in the recent month, or at least, that she’s been aware of. She knew in her logical mind that it was that side of him standing there. But there was still a small wave of relief that washed over her upon seeing him—or really, upon _not_ seeing the akuma villain.

Still, the Nathaniel in that moment bore a much more striking resemblance to Evillustrator than the one she had been working with. It was the eyes. The eyes that she was in the habit of meeting with her own because she had discovered so long ago that eye contact would scare people much more than anything she could possibly say to them. The eyes that were no longer warm, no longer gentle. The eyes that like many others had once turned to her in hatred and hunted her down. The eyes that showed no mercy, no sympathy, no care.

Those were the eyes of the Evillustrator. Not Nathaniel.

After spending a significant amount of time around akumatized people, stalking the Ladyblog, and being akumatized herself, Chloé had eventually come to believe in the following: one’s akumasona never left them. More accurately, they were never gone in the first place. Within each person lay a hidden self—at least, some were kept hidden while others were somewhat obvious. Timebreaker, for example, was really just a more powerful version of Alix, with basically the same personality. Reflekta, on the other hand, was nearly the opposite of the Juleka people knew, but was still a somewhat accurate representation of her. Thus it was Chloé’s logic—the product of spending hours and days and weeks ruminating on this—that a person’s akumasona wasn’t a different person at all, but merely someone who existed inside them. For some, it was an idealized version of themselves—like Max, who became the ultimate gamer. For others, it was something they were lacking—like Mylène, who became horrific to combat her intense fear. And for others, it was something that resonated with their soul—like the zookeeper who had the heart of an animal. All the butterflies really did was bring to the surface something that was already there—and thus, something that still remained even after Ladybug’s healing.

The only difference thereafter was the knowledge of its existence. For some, that was terrifying; for others, empowering; and for most, both. Chloé happened to fall in that last category.

She had always known that inside her lay the potential for a badass superhero—one that might even be considered more powerful than Ladybug—and Antibug’s appearance had really only solidified that. It felt great to know that she had the potential for such prowess. On the other hand, though, she had been evil—working _against_ her beloved Ladybug instead of by her side. Sure, the hero had been mean to her that day and she was upset, but to so completely turn her back on someone she admired so much? She had tried telling herself over and over again that that part wasn’t her, that it was the influence of the demonic butterfly, tainting what would otherwise be a _good_ hero. But she knew that even if that was partially true, the conniving, vindictive, _evil_ nature of Antibug did exist somewhere inside her. It was very real, and could still appear again if prompted. And that was terrifying.

Thoughts like that were what kept her up at night, searching the bedroom ceiling for solace. It did no good to dwell on it, but she couldn’t very well ignore it either. Eventually, Chloé had been forced to come to terms with the fact that within her—as well as within everyone else who had ever been or ever would be akumatized—lay the potential for evil.

Thus, even though Nathaniel’s overall appearance remained the same, she knew it was Evillustrator looking back at her in that moment. The butterfly may have left him years ago, but the villain still remained. Within the quiet, shy, gentle art boy still dwelled the bold, malicious, vengeful nature of his other side. Chloé had seen it that first day he’d shown up for tutoring when he’d decided to look her in the eye. She knew Evillustrator’s bravery had come out then and it had stayed out thereafter. She saw the little hints of his presence every single day they worked together, in his lack of fright, in his occasional sarcasm, and most of all in his complete unwillingness to submit to her anymore. Those small levels of it she had been able to acclimate to—had even come to respect to a certain degree. But _this_?

This was unbridled anger, outright fury, utter hatred—this was _terrifying_.

Chloé wasn’t sure what sort of expression she had dawned upon seeing him, but whatever it was must have been quite something, because his anger quickly softened. Not enough to really let her relax, but it was noticeable nonetheless. Chloé recognized that familiar movement in his cheek that she had come to know meant he was thinking about something difficult. Finally, those deadly eyes broke contact as he rolled them in annoyance.

“Look,” he began, a serious edge to his voice. “I’m sorry for yelling like that. I’m just—,” one moment of heart-stopping eye contact before it tore away again, “—really frustrated.”

Chloé stood still, watching uncomfortably as he shuffled over to the west side of the building and sat down near the edge with his back turned toward her. From beneath his loose over shirt, Chloé could make out the severe tension he was holding in his shoulders. He may have calmed that slight bit, but the anger sure as hell wasn’t gone.

Her teeth ground together mindlessly as she debated what she should do. On the one hand, the silence was going to drive her mad if it continued much longer. But on the other hand, if she spoke he might yell again. But then again, if he never yelled at her and thus never got out whatever it was that had him so frustrated…then what? Would their interactions go back to the way they were in the beginning? Back to the constant air of irritation and the biting and the tension?

A pit sank in her stomach as she considered the possibility. Wow, that felt a lot worse than she would have expected. She really really didn’t want to go back to that.

Chloé took a deep, shuddering breath. She knew what she had to do but holy hell she did not want to. Resolved to her fate, she clenched her fists and forced her feet to march forward. He didn’t budge as she approached, and she wondered if he could even hear her. Eventually, she was only a foot away from him.

He spoke before she got the chance.

“Chloé, please just…don’t.” He still hadn’t moved a muscle. Nathaniel merely sat there, knees drawn up for his elbows to rest on as he stared off at the setting sun. His voice had completely lost its sharp tone and was left with only hopelessness. He sounded _tired_.

She breathed in deep—much more steady this time—and let it out resolutely.

“No.”

From her position over his shoulder she could see his fists clench. “Chloé, please,” he muttered through gritted teeth.

“No,” she repeated. “Whatever you have to say to me, I need you to say it.”

His fingers tangled in his hair and for a moment she worried he might pull it out of his head. “ _Why?_ ”

He was clearly getting worked up again. Chloé’s self-preservation screamed at her to stop. Abort mission. Turn tail and _run_. But she stood her ground. This was something she had to do. “Because I don’t like this,” she said, drawing on her years of built up courage to keep her voice steady. “I don’t like you being mad at me like this.”

“Oh my _god_ ,” he half grumbled half yelled. She stumbled back as the artist jumped up to cross to the other side of the roof.

“I don’t get it,” she called, stalking after him. Tiny pebbles stuck into her bare feet, but she didn’t pay them any mind. “Why are you even mad?”

He spun, wild with fury. “ _Why_ am I _mad_!? You seriously don’t know!?”

Chloé’s fingers curled into fists as she tried to hide her shaking. _No_ , she thought. _You are Chloé Bourgeois, you are not intimidated by this scrawny artist._

“No! I don’t know! I don’t know what has you acting this way all of a sudden, I didn’t do anything!”

“ _You akumatized your butler_!”

Silence fell around them and Chloé felt her need to flee rapidly calm down as mere confusion took over. “What?”

Light glinted off metal as his eyebrows went sky high in an incredulous expression. “What? _What_? Chloé, that akuma back there was _your butler, Simon_. And he was coming after _you_.”

“Akumas just come after me all the time, I don’t—,”

“BECAUSE YOU CAUSE THEM.” Her mouth snapped shut. “Holy _crap_ Chloé, how can you be so damn ignorant?! So self-centered!?”

Fear quickly gave way to rising irritation. Faced with a boy who had once tried to kill her or not, Chloé Bourgeois was not spoken to this way. “How dare you say something like that to me?”

“Because it’s true!! Akumas don’t just _come after you_ , Chloé, YOU CAUSE THEM. You aren’t some innocent victim, THEY ARE.”

“That’s bull—!”

“It’s the reason I came after you!!” Chloé flinched back as he advanced a step. “Half our class was akumatized because of you! We all wanted revenge because you _bullied_ us! And you still do!”

“T-That’s not—!”

“Simon is your _butler_ , Chloé, your caretaker! I’ve seen the way he cares for you, and yet even him you treat like dirt!?”

“I don’t—!”

“How else was he akumatized then!? Tell me! Tell me how it’s possible that your butler got akumatized and came straight for you if not because of something that _you_ said!” Chloé opened her mouth to respond, but nothing came out. “Tell me!!” She flinched. She couldn’t even try to hide it this time. He was within reaching distance and staring at her with the vengeful eyes of the Evillustrator. Danger.

Nathaniel waited. His clenched fists were shaking at his sides and his chest rose and fell with labored breathing. Pure fury. And all she could do was stand there and watch, completely speechless.

A few seconds passed and Chloé was released from her hold. She felt every muscle in her body release tension as the artist turned and stomped away, head in his hands. “The worst part,” he continued, “is that I was falling for this act! I was really beginning to think that there was hope for you! That somewhere underneath all that selfishness and spite was a real, living being with human emotions! I can’t believe how _stupid_ I’ve been!”

“It’s not…an act.” Chloé’s meek voice could barely be heard in her own ears, but the artist spun back to face her, obviously having heard it.

“Are you kidding me!? You really want to try to convince me that you’re capable of basic human decency after this? That you experience emotions on an even remotely similar level as the rest of us!? Because clearly, you have no care whatsoever of how your actions might affect anyone but yourself! Not even your butler, who’s been putting up with your crap for _years_! I mean _really_ what the hell did you even say to him that could have pushed him over the edge!?”

He was staring at her again, waiting for an answer. And this time, she knew it. _No_ , she thought. _No, it isn’t true. I didn’t do it. I didn’t akumatize Simon. This isn’t my fault. It’s never been my fault._

But that wasn’t true. She was wrong and she knew it. This was all her fault.

Her lips pressed together in a last stubborn stand to maintain her pride. Knowing he wasn’t going to get an answer, the artist finally turned away and just watched as the sun set over the horizon. Chloé continued to stand there, perfectly still, but not tense. Just…still.

A small part of her still fought. Way in the back of her mind, stubborn and furious, it tried in vain to claim that he was out of line, spouting nonsense, speaking of things he knew nothing about. She should punish him for this, make him suffer for speaking to her this way. She could ruin him. She could put his mother out of business, could put a black mark on his name, could get him expelled. _All of the above_ , the fighting voice shouted.

But that voice was growing quieter and quieter by the second. The rest of her wasn’t listening and without an audience it was nothing. She was being faced with a reality that contradicted her own and she couldn’t ignore it this time.

She had akumatized Simon.

“My father’s dinner party,” she began softly. He turned to face her, but she didn’t look at him. “It’s on the anniversary of my mother’s death. Simon was just…the bearer of bad news.”

“So you shot the messenger.” It wasn’t a question so much as a logical conclusion, but Chloé nodded nonetheless. With a deep sigh, he turned away again, speaking as he walked back toward the edge of the roof to sit where he had been before. “Chloé, you can’t be like that. People aren’t less than you. They don’t deserve to be treated that way.”

The next thing she knew, she was taking a seat next to him, watching the sun set over the city skyline. The man sitting beside her may as well be a dormant volcano just waiting to erupt, but at that moment he had simmered enough to put her at ease.

“Why do you do it?”

She hugged her knees to her chest and rested her chin on them with a long sigh. “Control,” she finally responded in a quiet voice. “If people don’t fear me, I can’t control them.”

“Why do you have to control them?”

She huffed a heartless subdued chuckle. “Why do you think? My father’s a politician. One small thing goes wrong and he’s ruined. That’s the whole reason you’re here.”

Chloé kept her eyes on the horizon, catching that last glimpse of the sun before it completely disappeared. It seemed that Nathaniel had nothing to say, and so a somewhat comfortable silence settled around them. A light breeze brushed against them and Chloé shivered. Though summer was approaching, the nights weren’t quite warm enough that she should be outside in a short sleeve shirt and no shoes. Mere seconds later, however, warm cloth was being draped over her shoulders. Chloé jumped in surprise.

“W-What are you—?”

“I run warm, it’s no big deal.” She took a long look at the man sitting next to her. He kept his troubled teal eyes on the horizon as he settled back into place, resting his now bare arms on his drawn up knees. She couldn’t believe what was happening. Even though he was clearly still upset, he had decided to lend her his over shirt because she was cold. What even? Who does that?

“I don’t get it,” she said. “You’re mad at me. Why are you being nice to me?”

He rolled his eyes in exasperation. “Maybe because I actually find it in myself to care about people who aren’t me. You should try it sometime.”

Chloé recoiled from the stinging insult, not that she could really blame him at this point. She slipped her arms into the sleeves of the over shirt and felt a pleasant tingling as she sank into its warmth. Nathaniel’s warmth. _This feels like a Nicholas Sparks movie_ , she thought. _Why does this feel like a Nicholas Sparks movie?_ Of course, if it _was_ a Nicholas Sparks movie, she was pretty sure she wouldn’t be utterly terrified of the person who had just committed the classic romance movie trope sitting next to her. But then again, was she terrified of him at this point? She had chosen to sit down next to him, and she had just accepted his kindness.

She took a sidelong glance at him and still felt that stirring in her gut telling her to run. Though she logically knew that it was Nathaniel and she had nothing to fear, she couldn’t really be put to ease as long as he still bore the angered eyes of the Evillustrator.

She set her gaze on the horizon again, sinking back into the returned silence. The sky had darkened to the point that the whole city was a series of indistinct silhouettes by the time Nathaniel spoke again.

“Have you always lived this way?” She looked to him, but he still kept his focus straight ahead.

“What way?”

“Fear, control.”

“Oh…” She turned forward once again. “Yeah, basically.” She watched as a few birds glided across the evening sky. “Ever since Maman died at least.”

The silence resumed between them, and Chloé found herself thankful that he wasn’t asking further questions. She couldn’t say that she would really mind if he chose to ask about her mother, but at the same time, thinking about what happened had the tendency to take her to a place she really didn’t like being.

“Chloé—,”

She never found out what was supposed to come after that. All she knew was that suddenly a potentially dangerous hand was on her shoulder and without thinking, she was jerking away from it. She finally met the teal eyes of the artist again to find them completely back to normal—warm, secure, safe—but also wide with surprise as his hand floated in the space between them.

“I-I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—,”

“No, you don’t understand!” she rushed to explain. The redhead flinched back at her outburst, hand falling back to his side. Great, first she rejected his comfort and now she was snapping at him.

“Then…what is it?”

“I…I’m just…a little tense around you…right now.”

“Why?”

Before she could stop them, the words were spilling out of her mouth. “Because you once tried to kill me.” That was when she saw it. Pain flashed across his eyes as he realized what she was referring to. Pain from the shame of everything he had done, just like when she remembered Antibug. Without thinking, she continued. “L-Look, it’s not all the time, just sometimes…w-when you’re angry, you…look like him.”

The second the words were out she wished more than she’d ever wished for anything that she could take them back. _I’m sorry_ , her thoughts screamed, _I shouldn’t have said that! You aren’t him! I know what it’s like to be compared to them, please don’t listen to me!_ But she said none of that, instead letting the words float in the ever growing space between them.

“Oh,” he eventually said, looking away again. “I’m sorry.”

His hair fell in his face then, shielding his eye from view just like it always used to when they were younger. She wanted to fix it. Her hand itched to reach out and touch it, to pull what she imagined was soft red hair back behind his ear. Before she could stop herself, her fingers were in the air, inching toward him.

Just before she would have made contact, the black boots of a cat-themed superhero were smacking down on the rooftop behind them. Realizing what she had been about to do, Chloé quickly retracted her hand, successfully hiding it before Nathaniel noticed. “You two _feline_ alright? Need us to call a _purr_ amedic?” Ladybug landed a second later, groaning at her counterpart’s lame joke.

“We’re fine,” Nathaniel said as he stood and approached them. He sure didn’t look fine. After a second’s delay, she jumped up and followed. “Thank you.”

“Our time is about to run out, so let’s get you two back to the hotel.” Chloé watched as Chat Noir took off with Nathaniel in his arms, then she turned to Ladybug.

“Is Simon okay?” The heroin’s sparkly blue eyes widened, apparently surprised by her question. Given the reality that Nathaniel had enlightened her to, she could guess why. A moment later, Ladybug smiled.

“Yes, he’s fine. You should probably talk to him about what happened though.” She nodded. Ladybug offered her hand. “Shall we?”

She didn’t fully enjoy the flight across the city like before; she was too distracted trying to organize her thoughts and decide exactly what she was going to say when they got back. She had to set things right with Nathaniel if she had any hope of moving forward.

Ladybug set her back down on her suite balcony all too soon and disappeared with Chat Noir at the chirping of her earrings. Nathaniel was in the room, picking up his ditched shoulder bag to leave. He looked a little better than he had minutes before, but he was clearly still upset. Chloé dashed inside as he turned for the door, catching his arm.

“Nathaniel, wait!” He paused, but didn’t face her. “Look… Every time you look me in the eye, I see Evillustrator.” He turned to her, obviously offended, but she continued speaking before he could get the wrong idea. “Every time you say something sarcastic, it’s him. And every time you stand up for yourself, and have enough self-respect to leave instead of putting up with my crap, that’s him.” Now he just looked confused, but at least that was better than anger. “What I’m trying to say is that Evillustrator is a permanent part of you, and that’s okay. When he first appeared, you were a timid, quiet pushover, but he made you strong and brave. Just because he was evil doesn’t mean that everything he brings to you as a whole is bad.” Teal eyes stared down at her in a complicated mixture of confusion, surprise, and fright. He just stood there, his arm still in her hand, completely unmoving as he looked back and forth between her eyes, seemingly searching for something. “I-I’m sorry,” she finally let go of his arm and looked away. “I just didn’t want you to think that being like him was entirely a bad thi—,”

Chloé’s words cut off as she got a face full of red T-shirt. All of a sudden, she could hear her heart thumping in her ears—wait, no, that was his heart. The steady beating rested against her ear as his warm arms encased her in a tight hug. _He wasn’t kidding when he said he ran warm_. Despite having just flown through the cold night, the heat radiating from his skin managed to permeate the various layers of cloth separating them and seep into her very being.

Before it could even occur to her that it was Nathaniel Kurtzberg hugging her, she was sinking into him, bringing her arms up around his back to return the embrace. He was so comfortable and he smelled like citrus with a hint of spice and he was so _so_ warm. How could she not just enjoy being held so close? She hadn’t been hugged like that since…

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. She could feel his jaw move from where he rested his cheek on the crown of her head.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” she heard herself say. She wasn’t entirely sure why she’d said it, but she also found no desire to take it back. It was something that she thought she would never say, but then again, ‘sorry’ used to be too. And besides, it was true.

“That’s not true. I was angry. I said a lot of things about you that aren’t true.” He took a deep breath. “Chloé…I think that somewhere on the inside…you’re a really great person.”

Her breath caught in her lungs. Her heart skipped a beat. Her back straightened and her fingers gripped the fabric of his shirt in tight fists. Worst of all, her eyes became watery. She blinked fast. If her makeup ran, it would all be over. He would see. He would know.

He would know that no one had ever told her that before. That no one had ever seriously believed in her. Not since her mother died.

She swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat and waited until she was sure her voice would come out smoothly. Then, she uttered another Chloé rarity.

“Thank you.”

His arms tightened around her in just the slightest bit and Chloé ignored the uncomfortable yet pleasant way it made her stomach churn.

And then his phone rang.

As if awakened to reality once more, the two of them leaped apart. “Oh jeez, that’s probably…” he pulled his phone out and looked at the screen, “…yep.” He clicked to answer and held the phone up to his ear. “Hey Mum, I’m sorry—,” Chloé could hear the muffled angry voice of his mother on the other end as Nathaniel flinched away from the device. “I know, I—,” he pursed his lips as there was more angry ranting. He looked at Chloé and held the phone away from his ear. “I gotta go. I’ll see you later.” Chloé nodded. The artist gave her a subdued but genuine smile, then put the phone back to his ear and opened the door to leave. “Mum, you don’t understand, there was an akuma.” And then he was gone, the sound of his reassurances to his mother drifting down the hallway, leaving Chloé all alone in her big empty suite. Alone, but a little less cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW MUCH I HAD TO HOLD MYSELF BACK WITH THIS CHAPTER UUUGGGGHHHHHH. Trust me, no one is hating this slow burn more than me x_x  
> Anyway, thank you so much for reading! I'm sorry it took so long to get this one to you, but after reading it, I'm sure you can see why. My hope is that the next chapter doesn't take nearly as long, but as my work load this semester is massive, I really don't know how it's going to go.  
> Also, I'm looking for a new beta. If anyone is interested, please message me on Tumblr at either @musiclvr1112 or @iwroteinapastlife. Thank you! <3


	14. For All I've Done

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Be my friend. Hold me. Wrap me up. Unfold me. I am small and needy. Warm me up and breathe me.” –Sia, Breathe Me.

_Teal_.

Like Greece. The water. In the summer. Beautiful and clear and warm and that shade of teal that absolutely captivated her gaze. She sighed as she lazily drew her arms about her, reminding her skin of the liquid that surrounded it. The dazzling water enveloped her under the light of the sun and she could just lay there floating on her back for hours. She had missed Greece. It was her favorite vacation spot, but she didn’t travel that much anymore since it was no fun alone.

But now she was back in the arms of the loving ocean and it had given her such a warm welcome that she had thoughts to stay forever.

She calmly sucked in a breath of air before plunging in, sinking down below the surface. Her hair was completely free of its ponytail and she knew she would have a rat’s nest on her hands later, but in the moment she didn’t care, reveling in the sensation of the water combing through the strands. She opened her eyes and stared up at the surface from underneath. She could see the sun’s rays glistening in the mellow waves, illuminating the water that bright teal that she so adored.

She was absolutely immersed in it, surrounded by it, covered in it. And she loved it.

She spun about, taking simple joy in the way teal blurred around her vision and the way it felt to have such warmth caress her. She could feel it sink in through her pores, mix with her blood, infuse her bones. It even reached her heart. She felt absolutely warm, inside and out, and that was something she hadn’t experienced in so long it nearly made her cry to have it again.

She never wanted to leave.

The currents of the sea brushed past her and it sounded like her name. It was soft, gentle, just barely caressing her skin as it drew her to the surface. _But…I don’t want to leave_. It called a little louder, the water pulling her back up. _But—!_

“Madame Bourgeois!”

Chloé jolted awake, her eyes snapping open as a shock ran through her body. She blinked the sleep away to find the worried eyes of her butler staring at her. “Madame Bourgeois, are you alright?”

She slowly sat up, stretching her limbs. “Yeah, I’m fine, I…” She glanced around to see that she was sitting on one of the couches in her suite. “I must have fallen asleep.”

Simon reached out to correct some out-of-place hairs on her head from where he knelt on the floor next to her. He still looked worried. “So you’re not hurt?”

Chloé yawned as she straightened out her spine. Wow her muscles were tense. How long had she been asleep? Better remind herself never to sleep on the couch again. “No, I’m fine.”

The tension finally dropped from the butler’s expression and he smiled. “Thank goodness.” Simon rose to his full height and reassumed his professional posture. “Have you eaten, Madame? I can bring some food up for you.” He immediately moved to walk toward the door and Chloé felt a sudden panic rise within her. Without thinking, her hand darted out and grabbed his. The man looked back at her in surprise. “Madame Bourgeois?”

“I’m sorry.” 

* * *

 “Chat! I’m about to detransform!”

Ladybug watched as her black-leather-clad partner nervously glanced around, joining her in her search for a safe spot. “There!” he yelled, pointing at a deserted alleyway. Without a second to spare, they jumped down behind the industrial building and in a shower of pink and green sparks, Marinette and Adrien were left in their place. An exhausted Tikki fluttered into Marinette’s open palm and she lovingly stroked her head.

“Thank you for holding on so long, Tikki.”

Before she could respond, her counterpart groaned overdramatically and plopped himself onto Adrien’s head. “I’m so weak,” he whined. “I need camembert.”

Marinette had to contain her laughter as Adrien stared up at him with the saltiest glare imaginable. “I didn’t even use cataclysm. You just want cheese.”

“ _So weak_ ,” the tiny god continued, completely ignoring Adrien’s protest. The blonde sighed in utter annoyance and pulled out a chunk of camembert from his shirt pocket.

“Here, just eat and shut up, already.” Plagg spiritedly snatched up the cheese and flew over to Marinette’s palm to cuddle up to a giggling Tikki.

“Here, there are cookies in my purse,” she said, holding it open for them. The two gods zipped into it without another word.

“Hey there, little guy!” Marinette turned to see Adrien picking up a stray tabby cat and cradling it his arms. The bright orange ball of fluff purred and rubbed its face against the model as he showered it in affection.

Marinette smiled and reached out a hand to scratch the tabby’s head. “Why is it that cats always seem to find you, yet ladybugs don’t come swarming me?” Adrien shrugged, giggling like the human manifestation of sunshine that he was as the cat nuzzled his face.

“Maybe it has nothing to do with the miraculous. Maybe cats just like me for me.”

Marinette rolled her eyes. “Because you’re so _purr_ fect, right?” He looked up at her, eyes sparkling with the light of a million suns.

“When was the last time I said I love you?”

“Hmmmm, in the middle of the akuma battle, I believe.”

“That’s far too long,” he proclaimed. Holding the cat like a baby in his arms, Adrien leaned forward, planting a kiss on her cheek. “I love you.”

She smiled. “I love you too, you idiot.” She kissed him, taking joy in the perfection of the moment with the warm summer air around them, the peaceful sounds of the city in the distance—

And a cat’s paw on her face.

Marinette broke the kiss, blinking at Adrien for a moment before looking down to see the tabby looking up at them expectantly. She laughed. “It wants you all to itself.”

Adrien smiled and leaned down to kiss the top of the cat’s head. “Awww was I neglecting you? I’m sorry; I’ll tell my girlfriend to go away.”

“Oh no,” she sighed dramatically. “Replaced by a stray cat. What will I ever do?”

“What can I say? It’s just biology, Marinette; I belong with my own kind.”

Marinette laughed as he scratched the cat’s chin, enjoying the view of her model boyfriend cuddling the purring creature.

“Hey, before I forget,” Adrien said, looking up at her as he continued to pet the tabby, “Nath asked that we don’t tell anyone about him being at Chloé’s.”

“Did he say why he was there?”

“No, just that it needs to be kept secret.”

“Do you think they’re…?” The two eyed each other suspiciously, both knowing where that sentence was going, but afraid to say it. Adrien looked back down at the cat in thought.

“Given the way he yelled at her, I doubt it.”

“Yeah, that’s true… I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I actually felt bad for Chloé. I hope she’s alright…”

“I’m not worried. Neither of them are the type to let tension float in the air. Either they’ll resolve it or they’ll part ways, I’m sure.”

Marinette pressed her lips together in thought. “I still have no idea why he was over there.”

“Me neither. At least now we know we aren’t crazy. He really was glancing at her that one time.”

Her eyes widened in sudden realization. “Oh! I bet that’s why he couldn’t come to the party!”

“Because he was with Chloé?”

“Yeah, why else would he have acted like that? Glancing at her while trying to explain why he couldn’t come, with whatever is going on between them being a secret? He had plans to meet her, but couldn’t say so.”

“Do you think he goes there every day?” Marinette shrugged.

“I don’t know. That seems like an awful lot of Chloé. I don’t think _I_ could handle that big of a dosage, and Nath hates her more than I do.”

Marinette felt her stomach sink as those sad green eyes looked up at her from under perfect blonde locks. “Do you really still hate her?” he asked. Marinette frowned.

“I don’t know, Adrien. I know you’ve told me that deep _deep_ down she isn’t that awful, but… She bullied me for _so long_ , you know that. The only reason she stopped is because I started dating you.”

“I know,” the blonde said, looking back down at the cat with a tragically beautiful expression. “Your feelings are completely valid. I just wish you two could get along… She was my only friend for a really long time. And she seems to be at least somewhat mellowing out these days…”

They both focused their attentions on the cat, happily purring in its blissful ignorance of the conversation happening around it.

“You know…” Marinette began. Adrien looked up at her. “Right after the battle, before I took Chloé back to the hotel… She asked me if Simon was okay.”

Marinette glanced at her boyfriend to see his eyes wide with surprise. A tiny proud smile slowly crept to his lips.

“Really?”

Marinette found her own lips reflecting his.

“Yeah. She seemed genuinely worried. And…I’m pretty sure she’s actually going to talk to him about what happened.” 

* * *

 The butler blinked at her. “I don’t understand…”

“I’m sorry,” she repeated. “I’m sorry for yelling at you the way I did. And I’m sorry for treating you unkindly for so many years. You don’t deserve it, you never have.”

“M-Madame—,”

“I’ve always thought of you as family, Simon, and I’m sorry for not showing it. I really appreciate everything that you do for me, and I…” she squeezed his hand a little tighter as he continued to watch her in complete bewilderment. “I’m really sorry.” Her voice faltered and she could feel tears rising to her eyes. “I don’t expect you to forgive me. I just want you to know that I—,”

Chloé’s words cut off as for the second time that night she was enveloped in a hug.

“Of course I forgive you, Chloé.” _Chloé_. Her bottom lip trembled. Tears spilled over. She couldn’t bring herself to stop it this time. He had used her name and had shown her such care, such love, just like he _always_ did. She didn’t deserve it, not a bit.

Chloé buried her face in his shoulder as her body shook with sobs. “But I got you akumatized!” He smoothed down her hair in a calming gesture. He had always done that when she cried as a very young girl, and she couldn’t believe how ungrateful she had been. Simon had always been there for her, even when her father wasn’t, and in return? “I’m so sorry, Simon.”

“Shh,” he soothed. “It’s okay.” 

* * *

 Adrien beamed. “You see? There’s hope yet.” He nuzzled the cat again, his tone shifting to speak to the furry creature. “Huh, tabby cat? There’s hope for Chloé Bourgeois!” The tabby nuzzled him back, its chest roaring in a contented purr. “Yep, it’s official Marinette, the cat said so.” She giggled.

“Thank you, oh wise, all-knowing alley cat.”

“Hm? What’s that?” Adrien put his ear to the cat’s face as if it were speaking. “It says you’re welcome.”

She laughed and playfully flicked his nose. “You’re a dork.”

He leaned in close, waggling his eyebrows in the most Chat-like of ways. “And you _love me_.”

She gave him her best one-eyebrow-raised- _you’re-an-idiot_ Ladybug style smirk before rolling her eyes. “Yes, I do.”

“Marinette,” Tikki chimed, fluttering up from her purse. Plagg meandered out behind her. “I’m ready to go again.”

“Great. Adrien, you ready?” He buried his face in the cat’s fur in response. “Adrien, we can’t keep it.”

“But I love it,” his muffled voice whined.

“I know, and it loves you. We’ll come back to visit. Now it’s time to go.”

As if understanding the situation, the cat lovingly licked Adrien’s cheek before wriggling about in an attempt to escape from his arms. The sad ray of sunshine sighed as he set it back down. “Goodbye, tabby. I’ll always love you.” Marinette rolled her eyes and smiled at her boyfriend’s theatricality.

“Tikki, transform me.”

* * *

 Chloé straightened up and rubbed her eyes. Her makeup must look atrocious. Simon gave her a loving smile and she smiled back even though she was already on the verge of another wave of tears. Then the butler stood again.

“So would you like some dinner?”

“Yes, dinner would be lovely. Thank you, Simon.”

“And if you’d like, I can have that shirt washed tonight so you can give it back to him tomorrow.”

Chloé paused. Shirt? She looked down. Nathaniel’s shirt. Nathaniel’s soft, warm, grey shirt. She felt a small smile spread across her lips as she shrank down into its warmth. It smelled like him. It felt like him.

A part of her was reluctant to take it off, but she knew she had to be reasonable. She shrugged the article from her shoulders and draped it over the arm of the couch. “Yes, thank you, Simon.” And with that, Chloé finally went to go take her shower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, the next chapter is already ready x_x I'm so sorry for the long wait. I want to say it won't happen again, but with the state of my mental/emotional well being I can't really promise that. I'm gonna try my best though!  
> Thanks for reading! <3


	15. Like a River Flows Surely to the Sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What a wicked thing to do, to make me dream of you.” –Chris Isaak, Wicked Game.

_Blue_.

Bright blue eyes glowed in the dark, staring back at him. Wide with wonder, vacant of fear. They shone so bright in the vague, twisting, disoriented world that he could never believe them to be anything less than a beacon of hope, a saving grace, exactly what he needed, wanted, _yearned_ for.

Yet he flinched away from them. Every nerve in his body called for him to approach, accept, embrace, but his mind _screamed **NO**._ Those eyes had once burned, bitten, _seared_ the very core of his being. Those bright blues had been all he saw, but not as a light in the dark, rather that which kept him there. That darkness was his prison and those eyes the warden. They had beaten him, abused him, until he was nothing but a paper-thin shell protecting the shreds of an artist who had only harbored love. Those eyes had taught him fear, hopelessness, and above all else, hate. He had hated them with every fiber of his being and a reaction like that was not prone to subside.

And yet here he was, stuck in the middle with both reactions to the eyes’ grand presence tugging at his arms, threatening to rip them from his body.

_Hate._

_Love._

**_Hate._ **

**_Love._ **

They were no longer the eyes they had once been. The malice that had burned in those eyes had been absent for so long that he could almost imagine it was gone. All that showed now was curiosity, maybe even care. That was all he saw, and all he wanted to see, but he knew that underneath still lay dormant the potential for those previous eyes to reappear, to emerge once again and make him regret ever coming close, ever being lured into their siren’s trap.

_Hate._

_Love._

**_Hate._ **

**_Love._ **

_“I’m sorry.”_

The whispered words echoed around him, caressing his skin like the most intimate of touches. They surrounded him, warmed him, comforted him with their ethereal presence. They belonged to the eyes. The blue deadly eyes now shone with regret. They knew what they had done and they regretted. They were sorry. They had changed. It was real. It was true.

With sudden ease, the force pulling him to hate subsided and he found himself drawn in, willingly gravitating closer and closer to those bright blue eyes.

 _“I know,”_ he heard his own voice say. _“I forgive you…”_ light faded in, putting an end to the swirling tumultuous darkness that had previously been all around, and out of the confusion emerged with stunning clarity the figure of the beautiful young woman belonging to the eyes, _“…Chloé.”_

Nathaniel’s eyes opened with ease, already adjusted to the darkness in his room. The lucidity with which he awoke made him wonder if he had been shocked awake from a sort of nightmare, but in reality, it was anything but. He had no racing heart, no cold sweat, no sense of panic. He was…at ease. At ease, relaxed, maybe even happy. But awake. Very awake. At… He checked the alarm clock on his bedside table. 4:16 am.

Eh, not the worst he’s ever faced.

The insomniac stared up at his bedroom ceiling and tried to count backwards from one hundred. He sighed as he reached negative seventy-five, resigning himself to the fact that he was 100% awake and that wasn’t going to change any time soon. Nathaniel rolled out of bed and meandered over to his bedroom window, taking a look to the East. There was no sign of the sun yet, but given that summer was approaching, he had no doubt it would be peeking out from under the horizon in the coming hour. Starting his day by painting the sunrise didn’t seem too bad.

Ten minutes later he was stepping out onto the terrace to set up his canvas and paint supplies. He wondered as he stepped foot onto the tile if he should go put on a shirt—he hadn’t bothered to change from the mere pajama pants he slept in—but the warm night air reassured him. Indeed, summer was near if not already there. There were mere weeks left in the school year before he would be graduating and off to Chicago.

Nathaniel used the time before the sun emerged to draw the city skyline off in the distance. He wanted to be ready to perfectly capture the very first colors of the day once they appeared, as he knew his window of opportunity would be small. Some sights could only be captured in glimpses, too beautiful to be anything but rare—the first colors of dawn, the green flash at dusk, the genuine facial expressions of—

“Up so early?”

Nathaniel turned with a start to see his mother leaning against the doorway, a cup of tea in her hands. Her red hair was as neat as ever, implying she hadn’t so much as lain down since he saw her last.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked back. She smiled and crossed to the other side of the terrace, seating herself on the balcony railing as her wife had told them a million times not to.

“Well, when you’re up half the night worrying for your child’s safety and then still have to write a news article after that…” A pit sank in his stomach.

“I’m _really_ sorry I didn’t call sooner—,” Abigail held up a hand to silence him.

“I know, I know,” she said softly. “You can let it go, your mother and I already lectured you enough.” Nathaniel smiled a thank you before turning back to his painting. Abigail waited a few seconds, slowly sipping at her tea, before speaking again. “So, you want to tell me what happened to your shirt?”

Nathaniel frowned in confusion. “I was sleeping, and it’s warm out, I didn’t really think I needed to—,”

“No, no, not that shirt. The one you were wearing earlier today. You know, the loose grey one.”

Nathaniel paused. _Oh._ He had forgotten all about his shirt by the time he had gotten home to his two distressed mothers. “Chloé has it,” he answered simply, not stopping to think about the possible implications of his words.

“Yes, that’s what I thought…” She mused. He continued sketching, not paying any mind to the wheels turning in his mother’s head. A momentary silence settled over them as Abigail took a good, long sip of her tea before speaking again. “Did you use protection?”

Nathaniel turned his head to give her his _I’m so done with your shit_ glare. “You know it’s not like that.”

She smiled and he couldn’t help but feel that there was something behind it. “Just checking.” She took another sip of tea and he returned to his sketching. “What did happen though?”

Nathaniel shrugged. “She was cold.”

“How romantic,” his mother remarked. He scoffed. “What?”

“Sorry,” he chuckled. “Just, thinking of ‘Chloé’ and ‘romantic’ in the same context…” he trailed off, not having a way to finish that sentence other than merely laughing.

“Is it really that ridiculous of a notion?”

“Of course it is!” he laughed even harder, making one of his pencil marks go astray. He promptly erased it. “She’s Chloé!”

“So?”

“ _So_ , she’s Chloé. Chloé Bourgeois.”

“You say that as if it’s a reason in itself.”

“It is! She’s-She’s… She’s Chloé!”

“Yes, she is. Chloé Bourgeois, the mayor’s daughter, a very pretty girl who you yourself have told me is actually rather talented and a good person at heart.”

Nathaniel paused in his sketching to look at her quizzically. When had this crossed into being a serious conversation? His mother looked back at him, eyes seeming to dare him to argue.

“Where are you going with this?” Red eyebrows raised in feigned innocence.

“Going? I’m not going anywhere.”

“Then why are you asking these questions?”

“Why does no one in this house ever remember that I’m a journalist?” She nonchalantly took a sip of tea, but Nathaniel could see through the act.

“Alright, journalist,” he said, pretending to set his attention back to his art. “What’s the story?”

She took another sip of tea before answering, and Nathaniel could practically hear the smirk in her voice when she was done. “The story is that Paris’s most eligible bachelorette is perceived as a ridiculous romantic prospect by my son and I’m just trying to figure out why.”

Nathaniel nearly snapped his pencil. _Most eligible bachelorette? Chloé?_ “I-I—She’s—,” he sputtered, unable to think of proper words. “ _She’s Chloé_.”

Abigail sighed. “Yes, so you’ve said. Well anyway, I’m going to bed. Have fun painting.” And with that, his mother was gone, leaving him alone with only the sunrise and his thoughts.

* * *

Nathaniel went through his day trying in vain to ignore his mother’s words. He kept his nose glued to his sketch book throughout his classes, furiously scribbling down comic ideas and doodles of his favorite heroes in his attempt to not think about Chloé and the various ways she could accurately be described as Paris’s most eligible bachelorette.

His immediate reaction wanted to be that she wasn’t even that pretty, but he’d been forced to cross that off his list the second he’d shown up at school. Walking into the classroom that morning he had been unsuccessful in his attempts to avoid making awkward eye contact with her and…damn. That was the first time she hadn’t been the one to break it, opting instead to show him the tiniest of smiles—the curve of her glossy pink lips so slight that only he could have caught it, but a smile nonetheless. The interaction—which had lasted less than a second, let it be noted—had him swallowing a sudden lump in his throat and just barely making it to his seat before his legs gave out from underneath him.

So uh, yeah. Couldn’t really say she wasn’t pretty. Especially after seeing her hair down…

Nathaniel sketched out the shape of Ladybug’s pig tails, but that wasn’t what his hand itched for and he knew it. His fingers were craving to feel the pencil drag across the paper in the shape of long, straight, platinum hair, to depict the way it fell with absolute perfection all the way down to her thighs. Next thing he knew, his eyes had floated up toward the front of the classroom to admire the real thing for the seventeenth (eighteenth? Oh good. He had lost count.) time that day.

His next reaction had been to say that she was a bully, duh. But then again, she had shown immense progress in that domain as of recent. Not only was she bullying less in general, she had even apologized to him on more than one occasion, and just last night the shell had finally cracked to reveal the compassionate person that hid underneath. Though that didn’t mean she was a spectacular person by any means, it did mean at the very least that she wasn’t made of pure terror. And the bullying? He was fairly certain that was officially in the past.

So, basically, she was all kinds of pleasing on the outside, and she was probably even nice on the inside too.

Forgetting he was in the middle of class, Nathaniel smacked his forehead down on his sketch book, emitting a loud _thunk!_

Oops.

“Nathaniel Kurtzberg, what are you doing!?” The artist picked his head up to see Madame Mendeleev and the entire class staring at him.

“U-Uh, I, uhhh…” _Don’t look at Chloé! Don’t look at—aaaand you’re looking at Chloé. Wait…does she seem…concerned? Wow, her eyes are pretty. Such a striking shade of blue. Uh oh. She’s looking away now. Wait, you’re still looking. Oh no, how long has it been!?_

“Nathaniel, go to the principal’s office!” the chemistry teacher screeched.

“W-What? But I—!”

“You are not paying attention to the lesson and you are disrupting the class! Out!” He couldn’t believe this was happening. Again. With a grumbled ‘yes, Madame Mendeleev,’ he packed up his stuff and left the room, forcing himself to tunnel vision as he walked down the center aisle.

The second he was out the door, Nathaniel rubbed the heels of his palms into his head. What was wrong with him? He hadn’t focused on a single class all day—well, not that he usually did anyway, but it was definitely _worse_ this time—all because he was trying—and _failing_ —to not think about—or outright _stare at_ —Chloé Bourgeois, aka his childhood bully—or as of recent, Paris’s most eligible bachelorette!

No! No, no, no, no, no, Chloé Bourgeois was not— _absolutely not_ —Paris’s most eligible bachelorette, no!

_But—_

No!

Nathaniel took a deep, cleansing breath. He needed to stop thinking about this. He could dwell on it later with some paint or a coloring book or something. For now, he needed to go to see Principal Damocles. 

* * *

  _In. Out. In. Out._

Nathaniel breathed slow and deep as he dreaded the arrival of the elevator on Chloé’s floor. _It’s okay_ , he told himself. _I can do this. I’m just going to go in there and tutor her like usual and I’m not going to think about her being Paris’s most eligible bachelorette, not just because that’s ridiculous, but also because it’s not what I’m here for. I’m going to focus on the art. The art. The reason I’m here._

_In. Out. In. Out._

A ding sounded and all the blood in his body fell to his feet.

Welp.

_Okay. Let’s go. Left. Right. Left. Right._

Nathaniel rigidly tapped his knuckles against the door.

“Simon, can you get that?” he heard from the other side. He silently cursed himself as Chloé’s voice caused all sorts of tumbling sensations to roll through his stomach.

Why was he even so nervous? So what if his mother said some weird things that morning? And so what if he was having trouble dismissing those things in light of new evidence? It didn’t change the fact that he had been interacting with Chloé for weeks now and had managed to keep a friendly, professional disposition around her regardless of what sort of mess of emotions was going on inside. He didn’t have anything to worry about. Besides, even if she was Paris’s most eligible bachelorette, that didn’t mean that _he_ had to view her that way—

The door opened, and Nathaniel saw, clear as day, Chloé standing in the center of the room with what was probably a seamstress at her feet, wearing a long, elegant, form fitting, _beautiful_ deep _blue_ dress.

Oh he was so fucked.

Bright blue eyes snapped up to him and immediately widened in surprise.

“Nathaniel? What are you doing here?” The thick strap of the dress, clearly not properly measured yet, dropped down Chloé’s arm, leaving her smooth, tanned shoulder completely exposed. His eyes naturally trailed the deep blue fabric down the gentle curve of her breast, admiring the way it cinched around her waist, finally hanging loose at her hip, where it fell in mesmerizing waves down to the floor.

He couldn’t feel his tongue.

“I…Um…Tutoring?”

She smiled helplessly, perfectly shaped blonde eyebrows drawn together almost as if she were sharing some sort of inside joke with him and Nathaniel was nearly knocked off his feet by the novel expression.

“I’m having a dress fitted, remember? I told you not to come today.”

“I, Uh—,” he coughed, partially to try to regain control of his voice and partially to force his eyes away from her for two seconds for mental clarity. Oh right. Right before the akuma attack, when he was leaving. Wow. That felt like forever ago. “That’s right,” he said, rubbing the back of his head nervously, “you did say that.” He braved looking back up at her and luckily for him, her attention had been drawn down to the woman by her feet sticking various needles into the dress. “Sorry. I’ll leave.”

Even though he knew the image would be burned on his memory forever, he couldn’t help himself from taking one last long glance at Chloé in that beautiful azure dress before turning and walking out the door. Nathaniel was half way down the hall when he heard his name—wait, no, his _nick_ name—being called from behind him.

“Nath, wait!” He turned to be greeted by the image of one slightly frazzled Chloé Bourgeois running barefoot down the hall with the skirt of a designer blue dress with needles stuck in it bunched up in her left fist and a grey over shirt in her right.

Another image saved in his brain forever, with specific detail noting the loose strands of blonde hair hanging in her face, the way neither strap on the dress managed to stay on her shoulder, the slight flush in her cheeks, and the genuine worried look in her dazzling blue eyes.

“Your shirt,” she said as she reached him, only mildly winded. “You forgot it last night.”

All his nervous, hazy, admiring thoughts drifted to a halt and normal functions slowly started back up again as her words caught up with him. Nathaniel blinked at her in astonishment as he mindlessly took the article of clothing being held out to him. “Did… Did you just call me Nath?”

Blue eyes widened and peachy cheeks turned red. “I-I, um, w-well, everyone e-else, um—,”

“It’s okay,” he said, feeling a smile spread across his lips. “I’m glad.”

“You… You are?”

“Yeah,” he said, feeling his grin take on a mischievous nature, “this means I can call you Chlo now.”

He waited and watched as Chloé’s face went from frazzled, to confused, to angry over the course of only a few seconds. “What? No you can’t! Nobody calls me that, why would you—!?”

“Sounds good, see you tomorrow, Chlo,” he interrupted, shit-eating grin plastered on his face as he turned and went for the elevator.

“N-Nathaniel! You can _not_ call me that!” she called after him.

“Bye, Chlo,” he said as he stepped into the elevator. He turned and smiled at her, taking full joy in the sight of her absolutely bewildered in her fancy blue dress watching him leave.

“Don’t call me that!” The elevator doors closed. _“Nathaniel!”_

The artist stumbled backwards, leaning against the back wall of the elevator, and pushed his fingers back through his hair. He sucked in one deep breath…and then slowly dissolved into hysterical laughter. He couldn’t believe himself. He had just called her _Chlo_. Chlo! He, Nathaniel Kurtzberg, had given _Chlo_ _é Bourgeois_ a friendly nickname.

Wow, he never in a million years thought he would say that.

And she hated it too. That was the icing on the cake. Another wave of laughter hit him as he recalled the way her features screwed up into absolute bewilderment and anger. He relished in her annoyance, found pride in having gotten so deeply under her skin. He wanted to do it more.

Nathaniel tamed his laughter, settling for the grin spread across his face as he walked out of the hotel. What was this bubbliness? This elation? Nathaniel was having _fun_ bugging Chloé. In a totally friendly manner too. Even more, he wanted to continue! He _wanted_ to spend more time with her, if nothing else, just to annoy her.

He was about two steps down the sidewalk when he stopped dead in his tracks.

_Holy shit._

_I’m friends with Chloé Bourgeois_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out some beautiful art of Chloe in her dress by heatherica45 on tumblr:  
> https://heatherica45.tumblr.com/post/158723113152/more-chlonath-fanart-yay


	16. And Yet I'm Still Afraid to Let it Flow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I try and try and try to get you out of my life but I can't seem shake this vice.” –Crown the Empire, Two’s Too Many.

“‘It’s going fine,’ he says. ‘It’s no big deal,’ he says. Doesn’t look like no big deal to me.”

Nathaniel blinked in surprise as Théo passed behind him, going on about something. Between the loud music they had playing in the studio and the canvas in front of him, Nathaniel’s mind may as well have been a million kilometers away, making him jump when Théo’s voice reached his ears. He turned to look at the artist in confusion, not sure what he was trying to say. A good amount of time must have passed since he got there, because what had previously been a clean black shirt was now covered in streaks and splatters of clay water, and the long brown hair that had been down around his shoulders was pulled back in a sloppy bun. A lollipop stick between his teeth, Théo grinned at him and winked before continuing on his way to the sink to wash clay off his hands.

Nathaniel furrowed his brow in confusion. He was teasing him about something.

But what?

“What are you talking about?” But with the loud music and the running water, the man didn’t hear a thing. Chewing the inside of his cheek in contemplation, the redhead turned back to his art.

…Oh.

* * *

_Is your fashion sense lacking?_

Doubt it.

_Adrien Agreste and his girlfriend are too cute, and we just can’t get enough of it!_

Pass.

_20 Things You’ll Only Get if You’re Obsessed with Tea_

…Sure, that might be relatable.

Chloé vacantly scrolled through the Buzzfeed list, rolling her eyes at some of the posts. These lists always claimed to cater to a niche taste of some sort, but really they were just relatable if you were a human for the most part. Like number 16, _You can NEVER get the smell of Earl Grey out of your coffee mug!_ Duh. Didn’t have to be obsessed with tea to know that.

She nibbled on the carrot at the end of her fork as she scrolled through the rest of the list anyway. Okay, so even if you didn’t have to be obsessed with tea to get it, she could admit that the list was still pretty amusing. Better than staring at the empty seat across the table, anyhow.

“Another glass of wine, Chloé?”

“No thank you, Simon.”

“Shall I prepare you some tea?”

“No, thank you.”

“Anything else I can get for you?”

“No, I’m fine, thank you.”

“Chloé?” The blonde finally looked up from her phone then. The butler was standing to her left, soft concern etched into his features. “Are you alright?”

She blinked. “I’m fine… Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You seem…tired.”

She sighed, and every muscle in her body seemed to agree. “I am tired,” she admitted. “It was a busy day. But I’m feeling a lot better now that the dress is fitted for Saturday.” A relieved smile dawned on his face.

“Good. The dress looked quite lovely on you. Is there a reason you chose to go with blue this year?”

She knew what he meant, of course. She’d always worn yellow or black to these events before. When she was looking at the various dress options her designer had brought for her, though, the blue one had just…popped. A beautiful blossom of color in a sea of monotony. She smiled fondly. “I just…like it.”

She didn’t see the smile that her butler watched her with. A moment later, he was walking across the room to set down another place setting at the far end of the table. “Good,” he said. Then he glanced at her, a knowing smile at the corner of his lips. “He liked it too.”

“What?” He? He who? What _he_ had even seen her dress aside from Simon and—

“It was written all over his face.”

A deep blush crawled across her cheeks. “W-What?” Was he really implying what she thought he was implying? That Nathaniel…? “D-Don’t be ridiculous!” The butler only chuckled.

He must be teasing her. Or something of that sort. She huffed. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to let him be so casual around her.

She was about to say something about him being silly when the door opened and the mayor of Paris walked in. “Good evening, Chloé. Sorry I’m late.”

She could feel the heat in her face and the warmth in her chest rapidly subside. _At least you’re here at all_ , she thought as he took his seat. “Evening, Papa.”

“Your dinner, Monsieur Bourgeois,” Simon said softly as he set down a plate of food in front of him.

“Thank you, Simon. Chloé, darling,” he quickly began in his down-to-business tone, “tell me about your day.”

She inwardly sighed. A small part of her wanted to start telling him about school that day, just out of spite. Like how Madame Kahlo had actually praised the painting she was doing in class, or how chemistry had been interrupted by the artist at the back of the room. Sure, that was part of her day, but it wasn’t what he meant, and she knew that. She swallowed down that bit of resentment along with another bite of steak. “The fitting went fine. My dress will be ready by Saturday.”

“Good, good. I’m sorry to have sprung that on you so suddenly.” _No big deal, I only akumatized our butler over it, not that you really sound sorry anyway_. “It just kept escaping my mind.” _Maybe that’s because of the awful date you set it on._

“It’s fine, Papa. The dress is taken care of, so no harm no foul,” she said absently, picking up her phone again to find another dumb list to fill her time.

“And I assume you have a date lined up?” She paused, staring at her lock screen. She glanced at her father. He wasn’t paying her much attention, just cutting into his steak as if everything was perfectly normal.

“I’m sorry?”

“For what, dear?”

“No, I mean…” she shook her head, as if that could clear away the confusion in her mind. “Did you say date?”

“Yes, I assume you have one?” he asked, finally glancing up at her. There it was: worry. Worry that his daughter wasn’t upholding her employee duties. She set her phone down once more.

“No,” she said coolly, trying not to outright growl, “I didn’t know I needed one.”

“Well of course you do.” He lowered his silverware, apparently unable to cut his steak and discuss business at the same time.

“I’ve never needed a date before.”

“You weren’t an adult before, darling.” She frowned, that extra _darling_ on the end feeling unnecessarily condescending and contrary to the insinuation that he viewed her as any more than a naïve child. “Adults bring dates to these dinner parties; that’s how it’s done.”

She ground her teeth in annoyance and hoped her next words didn’t sound too accusatory. “I’m not an adult now either, Papa.”

He furrowed his brow, tilting his head in mild confusion. Then it clicked. “Ah, that’s right. Your 18th birthday isn’t for a few more weeks, is it?”

She wondered if he could see the disappointment in her eyes. Her birthday he usually remembered just as well as… Well, she supposed he had forgotten that too. She closed her eyes and stuck her fork through another carrot. “Yes, Papa.”

“Well, I’ve already put you down for two, so you’ll have to find a date. But I’m sure that won’t be a problem for my pretty girl, right?” Aside from the fact that she’d taken a step back from any sort of romantic endeavors since _Adrinette_ happened? Or the fact that she really didn’t associate with many people her age these days at all?

She pushed it all down. She would find someone. Even if he was dating Marinette, Adrien would still be her date to something stupid like this, right? He knew she had given up on having anything more than friendship with him long ago, so he would be willing to do that for her right? Maybe she’d pay him with Jagged Stone tickets or something.

“I’ll take care of it, Papa,” she recited.

“Very good,” he said with his _happy doing business with you_ smile. Then he picked up his silverware once again and finally took a bite of steak. “Mm, delicious. That chef Césaire really knows how to make a meal, wouldn’t you say so, darling?”

She picked up her phone again and found a new meaningless Buzzfeed article to stare at. “Yes, Papa.”

* * *

“I say that you just refuse to let them have snack time until they participate.”

It had to be the hair. Duh. Of course. He had seen her with her hair down and had been itching to draw it ever since. Just earlier that day in class he was having a hard time not letting his pencil flow in the long, soft strokes that would form those beautiful blonde locks. It only made sense that the second he had a paint brush in his hand and an empty mind he had set her form upon the canvas. Because he just really wanted to draw her hair.

“They don’t really work that way, honey. If I take away snack time, I’ll only be left with a room full of fifteen crying children.”

And it’s not like it meant anything, really. He often saw things that would get stuck in his head until he drew them—just like that image of Adrien and Marinette. And it was perfectly normal. He just had a photographic memory that interacted with his appreciation of aesthetically pleasing sights and his artistic drive. And that image of Chloé with her hair down just happened to be…aesthetically…pleasing.

“So let them cry! They’re bringing it on themselves.”

As was the image of her in the blue dress. He had known the second he’d seen it that it would bug him, so naturally he had drawn that too. Along with the hair. He had been itching to draw two different aesthetically pleasing images of Chloé, so in his subdued state of awareness his brain had mixed them and thrown them onto a canvas without his permission.

“Even aside from that being somewhat cruel to do to five-year-olds, it wouldn’t work. Even if the punishment of losing snack time managed to get them to participate in the activity, they wouldn’t enjoy it and it would thus be counterintuitive. They would end up associating their group activities with that sadness.”

So he really had no reason to be freaking out about it. He just had to think of it objectively. Objectively, he drew aesthetically pleasing sights, and objectively, Chloé was an aesthetically pleasing sight.

“Okay, so you tell them that they get _extra_ snacks if they participate.”

…Had he just admitted that Chloé was objectively pretty?

“That’s better, but I still don’t know if they would go for it. Five-year-olds can be finicky sometimes.”

Had he just used the word _admitted,_ as if this was something he’d been denying all along??

“What do you mean by that?”

He was really losing it. It was almost like it wasn’t just his mother arguing against him now, but his _inner self_ or something. What was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he get her out of his head? Even now that he’d drawn her—looking absolutely _stunning_ in that blue dress with her hair cascading down around her—he still couldn’t stop itching to draw her. As if his hands wanted more. As if he would never be satisfied. He hadn’t felt this sort of craving to repeatedly draw something since…

“Well, they don’t like doing something just because others tell them too. Even if others tell them they’d like it. They have to want it themselves. It has to be their idea.”

…since Marinette.

“So somehow you have to make them want to work together without it being your idea?”

That was crazy. It was crazy, right? Chloé? Be his…his _muse_?

“Yes, and that’s the problem. They’re being terribly stubborn and refusing to believe that working in new groups could be fun, and that they could even find unexpected friendships.”

He was definitely over-thinking this. It was probably just a phase. He had had phases before. Like his Ladybug phase. Shortly after being akumatized, he had wanted to draw Ladybug for weeks, but it had eventually faded away and he had gone back to just drawing whatever. It had just sort of been his way of getting over Marinette after that had blown up in his face. And then he had moved on.

“And you specifically put them in groups that you think would get along well?”

Of course, there was nothing really for him to be getting over right now—he hadn’t had a muse since Marinette, nor had he really had any strong phases.

“Yes. I’ve been working with these kids all year and I can tell that some of them would make such great friends, but they just haven’t strayed from the bonds that they formed on the first day.”

But this was still no doubt just a phase. No doubt.

“And now you want to get them working with others before school is over.”

He would probably spend a week or two drawing Chloé to excess—perfecting every single strand of hair and learning how to get just the right shade of blue for her eyes and playing with the different expressions he’d seen her display and probably even trying out different variations of her outfits and that stupidly beautiful dress and attempting to capture just how stupidly beautiful she was—and then that would be it. One day he would wake up and he wouldn’t have the irresistible urge to draw her anymore and he would move on with his life.

“Exactly. It’s just a few weeks, but I think they’ll form lasting relationships from it.”

So that was it. He didn’t need to freak out at all. He could just let himself embrace this Chloé phase and draw her to his heart’s content, and everything would be perfectly fine.

“Hmm… So how do you go about tricking them into wanting to work with new people?”

Wow. He couldn’t believe this. He was excited. He was excited to go make portrait after portrait of Chloé Bourgeois. Add that to the ever growing list of things he never thought he would say.

“I don’t know, that’s the problem. I was silly to think I could just put them in their groups today and expect it to work. I’m going to have to get creative.”

Of course, he would have to find a way to do it discreetly. After seeing the painting he’d done of Chloé that day, Théo had just continued smiling at Nathaniel as if he was some silly lovesick artist. He sure as hell didn’t want to repeat the fiasco that was trying to convince the man otherwise—he was pretty sure he had only further solidified the artist’s opinion the more he said it _wasn’t_ like that. And drawing her during class would be dangerous—after all, the last time he’d been caught drawing a classmate, well…he’d asked her on a date and then left her to drown while he tried to kill the person who’d caught him.

“Hmm… Do you have any ideas, Nathaniel?”

The artist blinked, suddenly waking up to the conversation that had been happening before him as his name was dragged in. “W-What?” he asked, looking up at the red head who had asked the question.

She scowled. “I asked if you have any ideas for your mother.”

“You’ve been pretty quiet this whole time. Are we boring you?” Lorraine asked.

“N-No! I’m sorry, I…” he looked back and forth between their confused and inquisitive faces, trying to come up with something to say. “I…haven’t really been paying attention,” he finally conceded. “I’m sorry.”

“Where’s your mind?” Abigail asked. Oh boy. How did he even begin to answer that question?

“Um…”

“Something happened today with Chloé?” He watched Abigail’s bright red brows disappear up into her hairline as her wife’s prediction hit spot on. How did she do that??

“Well, n-not exactly,” he replied, sinking down into his chair. “Chloé was actually busy today, so we didn’t have tutoring.” He glanced nervously at Abigail, whose teal eyes had narrowed just the slightest bit. She hadn’t missed the look on his face at the mention of Chloé’s name. His blood was in the water and she was the shark. His chances of escape were rapidly slimming.

“Oh, so were you at the studio then?” Lorraine asked, either completely oblivious to the silent drama happening at the other end of the table or pretending to be.

“Y-Yeah, I went and spent time with Théo again.” Despite the fact that he’d turned his attention toward the brunette to his right, he could feel the full force of those teal daggers digging into him from the left.

“Oh good, was it nice to see him again?”

Despite the copious amounts of teasing he’d gotten, “Yeah, it was.”

“Was he happy to see you?”

Nathaniel smiled warmly as he recalled the immediate hug he’d gotten before Théo even got to questioning why he was there. “Yeah. He even gave me one of his lollipops as soon as I arrived.” It was still sitting in his pocket, actually. He’d never really been one for eating while creating, but he appreciated the gesture nonetheless.

Abigail, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, finally chimed in. “So what did you two work on?”

“What?” he asked, turning back toward her. He may as well have been a helpless swimmer watching the shark fin slowly circle around him.

“You and Théo. Your art internship. What did you work on?”

“O-Oh,” he stuttered, trying in vain to figure out how the hell he was going to get out of this without letting his mother know that he’d painted Paris’s most eligible bachelorette. “Well, Théo had a personal project that he was working on, so I just kinda did my own thing.”

“Well that must have been nice; you don’t get a lot of time to work on your own art these days with the tutoring on your plate. You know, other than the time you’re supposed to spend paying attention in class.” Lorraine smirked at him as she took a sip of wine and he smiled sheepishly. It was no secret in that household that he was terrible at paying attention in class, but they had agreed ages ago that as long as his grades were decent, he could spend his class time however he wanted.

“Yeah,” he replied, happy to have the detour. “It was really nice. Especially since Théo and I have the same taste in music. We just blasted our favorites and I was able to really sink into it.” That was certainly no lie. Even if he _had_ been utterly shocked by the painting in front of him when he was done, the session had been everything he loved about his art.

Nathaniel had found long ago that a true Zen could be reached by blocking out the rest of the world with loud music and just letting the art soak up all his attention. It was a similar feeling to his stress-relief coloring, except his mind often went on complete auto-pilot, the only conscious processes being purely technical—i.e. add a little more white paint to this, or fix the shading on that. It was like he was 100% immersed in his art—his passion—and somehow, nothing ever seemed to compare.

A hum of thought came from his left and he tried really hard not to appear too suspicious. “So what did _you_ work on?”

Shit. “Um, just a painting.”

“A painting of what?”

Shit shit shit. “Just a character from one of my comics.” Well, it wasn’t _technically_ a lie. Chloé had appeared in one of his comics years back…as a villain. Those teal eyes narrowed just the slightest bit. He waited for the impending attack.

Both of them were surprised, however, as Lorraine spoke up, shattering every bit of his growing anxiety with a bullet straight to the head. “So you painted Chloé, huh?”

Abigail’s eyes lit up and her jaw dropped in an expression that was surprised, but delighted beyond belief, as if she’d opened a box full of puppies or something. The artist turned as red as his hair.

“How!?” he exclaimed, looking once again at the mother who had just effectively murdered him. The brunette merely smiled and shrugged, taking a bite of bread.

“‘But she’s _Chloé_ ,’” his very mature mother mocked, throwing his words from earlier that morning back at him. He glared at her.

“So I admit, she’s pretty, okay?” He talked over her maniacal giggling. “When I went to the hotel today she was having a dress fitted and I saw her in it and she was really pretty so I had to paint it, but this doesn’t change anything!”

“Well of course it doesn’t, sweetie. Abigail, why are you laughing like that?”

“Because I was right,” she replied, still bubbling with laughter. Nathaniel groaned and threw his head into his hands, hunching forward to rest his elbows on the table.

“Right about what?”

“Nothing, Maman,” he interjected, standing up. “She’s crazy.” Abigail only laughed harder. “I’m going to my room. Goodnight.”

He heard a confused ‘goodnight’ amidst maniacal giggling behind him as he rushed down the hall to his room.

Blessed silence washed in as he shut the door behind him, leaning back against it and slumping down until he sat on the floor, knees drawn up to his chest. He breathed slow and steady for a moment, letting the heat in his face subside. Then he pulled out his phone. He opened up his pictures and looked at the one he had taken of his own work just earlier that day.

Bright stunning blue eyes stared up at him, wide and innocent and even—dare he say it—caring. She wasn’t smiling—he had yet to see a smile on her that really struck him—but her expression wasn’t one of anger either. Rather, it was the way she’d looked at him when he had been leaving the day before, right after the akuma attack. Right after he’d hugged her. He couldn’t really decipher what the expression was, but he knew it was a rarity—that he was one of only a few who had ever seen it. That it was special.

He felt his heart thump particularly hard in his chest and his face heat up once again.

 _It’s just a phase_ , he thought, pushing his fingers back through his hair. _Just a phase_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright y'all, this has been one hell of a slow burn but the time has finally come. You can expect fluff and actual movement coming VERY SOON. (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧  
> (Literally, no one is more excited than I am x_x)  
> See you soon~ <3


	17. That Ice is Slowly Melting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m so en-captured, got me wrapped up in your touch,” –Disclosure ft. Sam Smith, Latch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An anon on tumblr reminded me that today marks TttPatI's one-year anniversary. Thank you everyone who's been reading, you're a great part of the reason that I'm still just as passionate about this story as I was when I started <3

Seven.

That was the number of portraits of Chloé Nathaniel had created so far with his active knowledge—in other words, not including the initial painting of her he’d done at Théo’s. The worst part: it was only 2 pm.

He didn’t exactly mean to fill his notebook with her _so fast_ , but every time he started to get into one portrait of her, he’d had to start a new one. He was quickly finding that Chloé was different from his other muses—er, phases—in that he couldn’t quite seem to capture her right. Of course, he would never claim that any of his portraits had fully measured up to the real thing, but he liked to believe that with his photographic memory he had at least been able to rightfully capture his subjects. But Chloé…

She was much more beautiful than this.

At first he thought he just wasn’t making her hair look silky enough, so he had started a new portrait focusing solely on her hair, but even when it looked like a smooth shining waterfall of gold, the portrait still wasn’t right. So then he figured it must be her eyes—that’s what it usually was anyhow. That’s how portraits 3-6 had come about, by him trying style after style on her eyes, only to eventually decide that what he had started with was probably going to be best for her. Then he had been in the middle of portrait number seven—focusing on the shape of her nose—when the bell rang, signaling that the school day was over.

He could’ve sworn it was just lunch.

He sighed and slipped his sketchbook into his shoulder bag. He was really hoping the day would take its time so that he would be able to center himself before facing Chloé, but no such luck. He still had no idea how he was going to look her in the eye without becoming an absolute blushing mess and spilling the fact that he’d been drawing her all day.

Maybe he ought to just come out and say it. _Hey Chloé, how’s it going, your face is covering seven pages of my sketchbook and a canvas in a public art studio, no big deal, so tutoring right?_

Yep, that could only go well.

The troubled artist had just stepped out onto the front steps of the school when he was lightly knocked in the shoulder by the blonde speeding by with her nose in her phone. _Oh no_ , he thought. He wasn’t ready yet. He wasn’t even sure he would be ready by the time he got to their tutoring session, let alone in that moment when he hadn’t yet even begun to prepare himself.

Chloé’s head snapped up, looking startled at the contact, even though she was the one who had caused it. “Oops, sor—,” she turned and hesitated the moment her bright, cool blue eyes met his. “Sorry,” she said, voice suddenly ten times softer.

“I—Uh—N-No problem,” he stuttered out, unable to tear his eyes from hers. The corners of her lips curled upward in the tiniest of smiles—so small he knew that only he would have seen it—and then she looked back down at her phone and continued on her way. He watched—heart racing, eyes blown wide, probably blushing—as she stepped into the awaiting car and disappeared.

The eyes.

He quickly spun and paced back to the art room, fumbling with his phone on the way. He set an alarm for 2:20 pm. Ten minutes was enough time to get to the hotel right?

Didn’t matter. He would run his legs raw if needed. At that moment, he absolutely _had to_ paint her. He was an idiot. It wasn’t the _shape_ of the eyes, it was the color! How vain was he to think that he could have possibly captured just the right shade of that beautiful sharp blue on the first try? Going to the hotel could wait. At that moment, he _had_ to find the right shade.

* * *

The artist showed up at her suite that day doubled over and gasping for air.

“N-Nathaniel?” she asked upon opening the door to see him like that. “Are you okay?” His face was nearly matching his hair, and he looked like he might collapse any second. She glanced up and down the hallway for any signs of danger—wondering if he had been running from another akuma or something—but the coast was clear.

“Yeah,” he wheezed. “Totally fine.” _Liar_ , she thought, grinding her teeth in mild concern as she stood there, watching him fight to breathe. “Sorry I’m late,” he huffed. She scowled and checked the phone in her hand. No notifications. And it was 2:29 pm.

“You’re not late.”

“What?” he asked, finally straightening up. His chest was still heaving, but his face was slowly making its way back to its normal color. “Are you sure?” She flashed the screen of her phone at him and he blinked at it in shock. “I guess I can run faster than I thought.”

“Why were you running? Thirty minutes is plenty of time to walk here.” If his face had cooled any, the red certainly flared up again then.

“I—Uh—W-Well, you know, I-I-I… Uh… I…” he seemed to lose his momentum the longer she stared at him. He trailed off as he looked back and forth between her eyes, seeming to zone out.

“Nathaniel?” Teal eyes blinked in surprise, as if coming out of some sort of spell.

“I… I had…a thing.”

“A thing?”

“Yeah, uh, a thing, you know, in the art room. An art thing.”

Her brow furrowed. “But I saw you on your way out of the school.”

He started laughing then. Not in a genuinely amused way, more like in a nervous way. What was up with him? “Haha, yeah, um, I almost forgot about, um, my thing, but then I remembered a-and went back.”

She stared at him a moment longer before realizing that he was still standing out in the hall. “Weirdo,” she eventually said, stepping aside so he could enter. He laughed and scratched the back of his head in a nervous gesture.

“Haha yeah, I am. Sorry.”

“Whatever,” she said, rolling her eyes and closing the door behind him. She checked her phone again. No notifications. She sighed. “So I’ve been thinking about what you said and I think I want the flowers to be the only color in the piece.” She made her way over to where she had her canvas set up. She hadn’t made any progress on it since Monday, when he was last there with her. It seemed hard to believe that only two days had passed since she had set her mother’s gravestone and flowers upon the canvas; so much had happened since then.

“Okay,” he said as he set down his bag and took a seat. “That means shading the rest of it in greyscale. You up for it?” She turned from her art to stare at him with one eyebrow raised. He grinned and she felt the corners of her lips turn upwards the slightest bit, his smile contagious. “Sounds good. With greys, the brightness of the shades that you use can heavily influence the tone. On a scale of one to ten, how gloomy do you want it to be?”

 _Ten_ , she immediately thought, remembering previous years when she’d gone to put flowers on her mother’s grave. She ground her teeth as she stared at it, though. Ten didn’t actually feel right.

“I guess…seven?”

“Seven’s good,” he said. “You ready to start?”

“Yeah,” she said absentmindedly as she took another look at her phone. Her heart leapt into her throat when she saw that there was a notification, but sunk immediately when she realized it was just an akuma alert from the Ladyblog. With a disgruntled sigh, she tossed the phone aside and picked up her paint brush.

* * *

He hadn’t tried drawing her from behind yet, but the more he observed her at work, the more he knew he would have to. Once again, Nathaniel was sitting behind Chloé as she worked on the easel so that he could watch over her shoulder and offer guidance every once in a while. But at this point, she really didn’t need it, so most of the time he was left to just sit and watch her. And well, before he knew it, his eyes had ditched the painting to take in her form instead.

She had taken off her yellow sweater that day and draped it over the back of the chair mumbling something about it getting in the way. Then she had ditched the chair entirely, electing to stand directly in front of the canvas so she could get up close and personal with it. Aside from the view of Chloé’s intensely focused expression as she nearly dipped her nose in the paint being amusing, the angle also gave him a full, unhindered view of her body—a view which he very shamefully appreciated.

His eyes swept down the flawless stream of blonde hair that ran from the ponytail at the top of her head, amazed at how smooth it looked, not a tangle in sight. Then his gaze glided over the slope of her back, taking note of the grooves between her shoulders and the gentle bend at her waist. Her shirt gave way to The Blue Jeans ™ as they traversed the perfect shape of her—

“Nath.” His eyes snapped up at the sound of his nickname and he swallowed nervously, a slight heat rising to his cheeks. Thankfully, she hadn’t turned to look at him, so she didn’t see where his attention had travelled.

“Y-Yes?” he asked, clearing his throat in a feeble attempt to banish the stutter. “What’s up?”

She absently waved her hand over her shoulder in a beckoning motion. “Come here,” she said, still fully focused on the piece in front of her. She moved slightly to the right as he approached, giving him room to stand directly next to her in front of the easel. To say the painting was coming along well would be an understatement. The bouquet and the gravestone were now fully detailed, some shadows dancing across them even implying the presence of tree leaves interrupting the sun’s rays. All that was left was the grass and the sky.

“It looks beautiful,” he said, and it wasn’t even slightly untruthful. It really was shaping up to be a gorgeous painting. If Madame Kahlo didn’t like it, she was crazy.

“Thanks,” Chloé mumbled absently. He turned to look at her and noticed that she was grinding her teeth as she scrutinized the painting.

“What’s wrong?” She frowned.

“I don’t want the sky and the grass to be grey like the gravestone, but I also don’t want them to be blue and green.”

“Well, what do you want them to be?” he asked, probing what sorts of coloring or atmospheric thoughts she might be having. He didn’t want to suggest anything until he was sure she wasn’t already getting somewhere on her own. Because really, at this point he was almost 100% sure she could make a masterpiece without his help if she really wanted to.

The blonde stared at it for another two seconds before dropping all the tension in her face and sighing. “I don’t know,” she said, walking away to set down her brush and palette on the table. She picked up her phone then—the fourth time she had checked it since they got started—and frowned, quickly putting it down again. Then she started clenching and unclenching her painting hand, as if trying to work out a kink. Just as he thought, she was making her hand cramp up with her tight hold on the brush.

“Here,” he said, holding out his hands and gesturing to hers. She eyed him warily as she placed her hand in his, but quickly relaxed when he started massaging it. She sighed—a much more contented, pleasing sigh than before—and he inwardly smiled at the sound.

“Thank you,” she said softly. She sounded tired, and he wondered if it was because of the art or because of whatever had her checking her phone so much.

Nevertheless, he smiled at her. “It’s no problem. My hands used to cramp up a lot too. I can show you easier ways of holding the brush, if you want. Or,” he added, unable to stop the proposition before it was out of his mouth, “I can just massage your hand every time it happens.” Uh oh.

Well, there it was. Hanging in the air between them. No taking it back now.

He glanced nervously at her to find her eyes closed and her head tilted slightly to the side, a simple smile painted on her shimmering pink lips. _Wow_. He was going to have to draw that later. The sight of Chloé before him, relaxed and pleased, sinking into a simple hand massage that _he_ was giving her… He was pretty sure he was blushing.

“I think I’d be alright with this,” she sighed. Okay now he was definitely blushing.

Her eyes popped open a second later, as if realizing what she had said. “I-I mean, I just have to get through the next few weeks, so it’s not like changing my grip is all that important at this point.”

“R-Right,” he said, trying not to avoid eye contact with her while also trying not to outright stare at the rosy hue in her cheeks and the way they contrasted with the bright blue of her eyes. He kept massaging her hand as an awkward silence fell over them. He needed to change the subject.

* * *

“Hey, can I ask you a question?” Chloé looked back up at the redhead, blush finally dying down. The artist had a playful glint flickering in his warm saltwater eyes that elicited a tiny flutter in her stomach. She had to clamp her lips together so as to not smile in response to it. Instead, she narrowed her eyes at him.

“On one condition,” she said, then on second thought, quickly amended, “Wait! Two conditions.” He flashed his teeth in a small grin that—coupled with the massage he was giving her—made her melt inside.

“Okay,” he replied, “What are they?”

“The first is that you have to massage this hand too,” she said, holding up her left hand. “Otherwise I’ll feel uneven.”

His grin widened. “Alright. What’s the second?”

“The second is that for every question you ask me, I get to ask you one as well.”

“Okay,” he agreed with a full hearted smile. She almost laughed at the childish joy that he radiated. Almost. Instead, she gave him an inquisitive look.

“Why do you look so excited about it?”

One red eyebrow rose as he leaned just a bit closer with a smirk upon his pink lips. “Is that your question?” A smirk twitched at the corner of her lips as she subconsciously leaned closer to him as well.

“Is that yours?”

“Gee, Chlo, that’s two now, how many do I get?”

“You don’t get any until you start answering.” Those teal eyes sparkled, pink lips smiling at her for a moment before he straightened back up, resuming space between them. Chloé blinked as she realized his face had gotten mere centimeters from hers.

“I like this game,” he said. “That’s why I look so excited.”

“This game? Wha—?”

“Ah-ah,” he interrupted. “It’s my turn.”

“Fine.” She pulled her right hand from his grip and replaced it with the left, biting back a pleasured sigh as his skilled fingers began working her flesh. “But I get a real question after this.”

The artist flashed a charming smile—one she would never admit to liking as much as she did—and said, “Chloé, you can have as many questions as you like, so long as I do too.”

She took a moment to stare at his expression in that moment, knowing that the instant she said anything it would be taken away. His scarlet eyebrows were cocked _just so_ and his teal eyes burned with a subtle but scorching heat and those thin pink lips curled at the edges in a playful smirk and all of it together simultaneously made Chloé want to take a picture and smack it off his stupid face. She settled for soaking it in for a few seconds—not long enough to seem weird—before rolling her eyes.

“Just ask your question.”

He shifted back a little bit, effectively breaking the strange energy that had sparked between them, and his expression went back to normal. “Why do you keep checking your phone so much?”

She groaned in annoyance, leaning her head back and staring up at the ceiling. She picked up said phone and tapped the home button again, frowning when the only notification was another one from the Ladyblog: _The heroes did it again!_ “I’m waiting to hear from Adrien about something and he’s taking forever.” What was he even doing so late in the afternoon on a Wednesday?

“About what?”

“Nope,” she said, setting the phone face down on the table. She smirked at him. “It’s my turn now, remember?”

She really liked the grin he gave her in response. That energy seemed to have resurfaced. “Alright,” he conceded, “ask away.”

Aaand now she was going to break that energy again. “Does your mother know that you’re tutoring me?” She bit back a grimace as she watched the smile fall from his lips. Guilt dragged his teal eyes down away from her.

“Yeah. They both do. They’ve known from the beginning.” She was about to reassure him that it was okay—and that she even figured they knew earlier—but before she could say anything, he continued. “I tried not to tell them but Maman is a human lie detector and Mum is really intuitive; they figured it out instantly. I’m so sorry, Chloé.” She hoped to say it then, but he barely paused to take a breath. “But you don’t have to worry. They promised not to say anything and I know that you can’t necessarily trust that, but you can trust me and—,”

“Nathaniel.” She placed her right hand over his, silencing him by pausing his movements. “It’s fine.”

“I’m really sorry,” he said, voice quiet. She couldn’t help the tiny smile that came to her lips. She didn’t exactly like seeing him so apologetic, but she was touched that he cared so much.

Chloé gently squeezed his hands before pulling away. “Don’t worry, I’m not upset,” she said as she crossed the room to go fetch the morning newspaper from the coffee table. “I only bring it up because her article today caught my eye.” She held the paper out to him as she returned. His brows furrowed in curiosity as he took it.

“Oh no,” he sighed as he read the headline. He glanced up at her in worry before inspecting the article more closely. “Is this about the…?”

“The dinner party,” she confirmed.

“The one you told me about? Set on…?”

“Yeah.”

His expression fell even further into guilt. “I’m so sorry, I had no idea she was writing this. I swear I didn’t tell her about it.”

Chloé shook her head. “You didn’t have to. All of Paris knows the date. I’m surprised no one talked about it sooner.” She tried to hide the twinge of bitterness she felt at having her family life be a public spectacle, but the artist clearly picked up on it, casting her a sympathetic look. “It’s okay,” she said. Really, it was. Her entire life had been spent in the public eye. She was used to it.

“Was she mean? I know she can be really mean sometimes…” the artist probed as his eyes skimmed the article.

“No, actually. That’s what made me think she must know about this. She was oddly sympathetic toward me. Not a lot of journalists are. Not a lot of people are in general actually.” She could feel the artist’s eyes on her then, even though her gaze had travelled back to the painting. She didn’t want to look at him. She didn’t want to see the pity in his eyes. He might have been about to say something—it probably would have been something nice, too—but she spoke before he could. “What if I mixed a small touch of green in with the grey for the grass and a small touch of blue for the sky? That way they’re still in greyscale, but just barely showing their colors still. Like they’re subdued.” She brought her attention back to the redhead then, and felt the corners of her mouth curve up when he met her gaze with a smile.

“I think that’s a great idea.”

Her smile grew just the slightest bit as she looked back at the canvas, picturing the scene with just the tiniest bit of color seeping back into the world surrounding her mother’s grave.

“Me too.”


	18. In the Rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For maximum feels, start this song when narration switches to Chloé's point of view:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x5oilF2qhTA

By 2pm the next day, the number of Chloé drawings in Nathaniel’s sketch book had increased from seven to twelve. He would have liked to claim that the addition of merely five new sketches of her was because he was drawing her less, but really, there were two reasons that begged the contrary. Reason number one was that the only slightly limiting factor was that he had begun forcing himself to commit to sketches rather than starting a new one when it didn’t look right. Because really, none of them looked right, and no amount of restarting was going to change that.

The second reason was that in addition to the twelve drawings in his sketch book, there was still the initial portrait sitting in Théo’s studio—he really needed to do something about that before anyone else saw it—the acrylic painting he had done right before last night’s tutoring session—which he had thankfully smuggled out of the school’s art room early that morning—and three digital paintings he had done after dinner on his tablet at home.

So really, the total had gone from eight to seventeen.

And once again, the bell rang, signaling that class was over and he had missed the chemistry lecture again.

Bits and pieces of conversation floated past him as students shuffled out of the room. Kim lamented the track meet being cancelled. Myléne timidly worried about potential thunder. Nathaniel took a glance out the window as he packed up his stuff. The torrential downpour that had started up in the last hour was still going strong. He was in no rush to start walking to the hotel with that going on, _and_ he was itching to use the art room’s gracious variety of paints again to play with Chloé’s colors—the blue of her eyes was of course the most important color to refine, but there was also the tan of her skin, the platinum of her hair, the pink of her lips, the _blue_ of her jeans…

He was lost somewhere in the various shades of her skin tone—rubbing the hand-mixed paints onto a canvas with his bare fingers in an abstract sort of portrait—when his 2:20 alarm went off.

Nathaniel stepped back to admire his work. The canvas next to him boasted her beautiful face made up of smudged streaks that he’d placed with his own two hands, his own thumb passing over her cheek, his own forefinger drawing her hair back behind her ear.

Something tiny fluttered in his stomach.

He shook his head, clearing his thoughts. He needed to get going if he was going to make it to Chloé’s on time.

He moved the easel with his painting on it to the back room where hopefully no one would see it until he could collect it in the morning once it was dry. Then he slipped his shoulder bag back on and picked up his umbrella, smearing paint on both items (not like it was the first time anyway) as they came into contact with his hands. As he made his way down the hall toward the front entrance of the school, he could hear the unmistakable roar of steady, heavy rain still going strong.

He sighed. He was going to have to run to the hotel in that rain. Even holding the umbrella over his head, he was still going to get soaked, especially if there was any wind accompanying the rain yet, which the forecast that morning had suggested was likely. It wasn’t like he hated storms—quite the contrary, in fact. He loved storms. He loved watching rain hit the window and he loved the rush he felt in his chest with every roll of thunder. He loved the way every glimpse of lightning would narrowly escape his vision and he especially loved falling asleep under warm blankets to the sound of each and every drop of rain landing on the roof. He loved storms. When they were outside. And he was inside.

He did not like being outside with them.

“Where are you!?”

The shrill, agitated voice snapped Nathaniel out of his thoughts as he approached the front doors of the school. He looked up to see a pacing Chloé Bourgeois with her phone glued to her ear. _Oh good_ , he immediately thought, _maybe I won’t have to run after all_.

“It is literally eight blocks, how could you possibly be stuck in traffic!?” Uh oh. He picked up his speed, hoping to reach the blonde and calm her down before she made an akuma out of who he assumed was her driver on the other end of the call.

But then he slowed down, pleasantly surprised as he found his interception to be unnecessary.

The blonde sighed, dropping her shoulders and looking out in front of her. The sky was a dark, brooding grey and rain poured down thick enough to create a straight wall of falling water mere centimeters in front of her. “It’s not your fault,” she said, obviously still bitter at the situation but voice much softer. “This just happens when there’s rain like this.” She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Just try to account for traffic next time. I’ll see you when you get here.”

He watched, having drifted to a stop at some point, as Chloé hung up the phone and dropped it into her purse. She then raised her head to take a long look at the sky. From where he stood, all he saw before him was her back, long blonde ponytail hanging smooth and perfect behind her, and the dark, impenetrable wall of rain before her.

Beautiful.

He would have to draw that before bed.

* * *

Chloé reached a tentative hand out in front of her, flinching back when it hit water. The rain wasn’t warm, but it also wasn’t nearly as cold as she would have expected. Summer was approaching after all.

She ground her teeth in thought. The artist was probably already at the hotel, no doubt standing outside her door wondering where she was. Off in the distance she could hear the honking of frustrated drivers stuck in bumper to bumper traffic due to their complete incompetence in driving when water fell from the sky. She had no idea how much longer it would take for her driver to get there. But she also really didn’t want to walk home in this. She hadn’t thought to bring an umbrella since she’d been taking a car to and from school since she could remember. There was no use for an umbrella, even on a rainy day like this. So if she walked home like this she would be soaked to the bone, her makeup would run, and her hair would be a mess. Not to mention she would probably catch a cold.

She slumped her shoulders with a dejected sigh. She was just going to have to wait. She hated waiting. Chloé was many things, but patient was not one of them, especially when the thing in her way was nothing more than this measly—

She blinked in surprise as something cut into the wall of rain in front of her, heavy drops bouncing off the brim of an umbrella suddenly appearing over her head. Suddenly she felt the slightest bit warmer, heat radiating from the person standing directly behind her, and the subtle scent of spiced citrus stirred a tiny flutter in her chest.

She slowly turned, but even before his bright red hair breached her field of vision, she already knew who it was. The beautiful artist held his umbrella out over her, warm teal eyes open and welcoming as he peered down at her.

“Want to walk home with me?” he asked, voice gentle and teeming with some sort of warm emotion she couldn’t identify, but that stirred her stomach even more nonetheless. “We’re going the same place anyway. And,” he glanced around them, “there’s no one around to see us. And even if someone did see us, a classmate walking you home in the rain doesn’t look that suspicious, does it?”

She couldn’t tear her eyes from him, from his beautiful teal eyes that made her melt with even such a simple, calm expression like that. With him looking at her in such a fashion—with some emotion she couldn’t identify because no one had ever looked at her like that but that made her feel nothing short of absolutely _amazing_ —she couldn’t bring herself to care if anyone saw them together. She _wanted_ to walk with him.

The distinct roll of thunder sounded in the distance.

She nodded. A mere two seconds later, she was smiling despite herself because _wow_ , the warm, gentle smile (again with that unrecognizable _something_ ) that Nathaniel gave her then was one of the most beautiful, _breathtaking_ things she had ever seen. Eyes like Greece warmed her soul and radiating heat warmed her skin, making her feel so pleasantly fuzzy despite the weather as he stepped closer to her so that they were both under the umbrella.

“Shall we?” He lifted his hand to gesture toward the sidewalk, a drop of rain splatting straight onto his palm, and Chloé did a double take as the colors in his skin suddenly swirled around weirdly. _What the—?_ She scowled, scrutinizing his hand, and then looked at the other one to see similar beige colors as well as blues and yellows covering his fingers and even smeared all over the handle of the umbrella.

“Why are your hands _covered_ in paint?” She looked up to his eyes then to find him making the same kind of nervous expression he had made the day before.

“O-Oh uh, y-you know. I had another…uh…thing. In the art room.”

“Another art thing?” she deadpanned, brows raised. It was weird before and it was weird now. What the hell was he doing in the art room after school that was making him stutter and say stupid things like this?

Again, the nervous laughter bubbled up. “Haha, y-yeah, another art thing.”

“But why were you painting with your _hands_?”

He held his hand up in the space between them then, glancing at his palm boasting various shades of light browns and dark yellows. “O-Oh, you know. I just…” he glanced at her and his expression slowly calmed, as if struck by an intervening thought, “like to…” he looked back at his palm, “finger paint…” back at her, “some…um…” he trailed off as he continued glancing back and forth between her and his palm. What was he doing? Why did he keep looking back and forth like that? What the hell was he—

Then suddenly he was lifting his hand closer to her face.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” she said, flinching away from his hand. “Do _not_ get paint on my face.” Teal eyes went wide as he seemed to snap out of the daze he had put himself in.

“S-Sorry!” he said, quickly snapping his hand back down to his side.

“What were you even doing?”

“I-I don’t know. Just, u-um, comparing. I guess.”

“Comparing? Comparing what?”

“Uhh…” He stared back at her for a few seconds, face betraying obvious panic, but then, like the flick of a switch, he smiled. “Actually, I think it’s my turn now.”

…

“What?”

“It’s my turn,” he repeated. “You’ve asked me, what, three questions now? I should get at least one.”

She raised one sassy eyebrow at him and he only replied with a cheshire grin. _You’re lucky you’re cute_. She rolled her eyes. “Fine, but let’s start walking.”

“As you wish,” he replied, seemingly pleased with himself. They fell into step then, shoulder to shoulder—er, _her_ shoulder to his _arm_ —under the small umbrella, as they began the walk to the hotel. Admittedly, Chloé probably could have put a little bit more space between them without getting wet, but she would be lying if she said she didn’t like having the warmth of his arm pressed against hers.

“Alright, what’s your question?” He opened his mouth, and already _sensing_ the snark about to come from him, she interjected, “And no, that does not count as another question.” He chuckled, and she inwardly smiled at the way she could feel his body shake with the tiny laughter.

“Dang it,” he joked. “Anyway, you never let me get back to my question last night.”

“Which was?”

“What were you waiting to hear from Adrien about?”

Chloé sighed out of relief, feeling the stress of all that _still_ vacating her body. “Oh, _that_. I just needed a date to the dinner party and Adrien was taking _forever_ to get back to me.” Thank goodness she had gotten all that squared away. The anxiety over her father’s society’s stupid formal event rules had been eating her alive the whole day yesterday. Not even her 20-minute-long shower had managed to fully relax her. It hadn’t been until that morning that the dumb model had finally gotten back to her and put her at ease, prattling some excuse about his phone dying.

“A date? But…Adrien is dating Marinette.”

“Duh,” she said, rolling her eyes. “It’s not a romantic date. I just need someone on my arm for the event. Adrien knows the drill; he’s had to go to plenty of these kinds of things for his father.”

“Wow,” he remarked. “Even kids have to bring dates?”

“Nope, adults have to bring dates,” she replied, making an extremely insufficient attempt at hiding her bitterness toward the issue.

“Do you…count as an adult?” She side eyed him with one brow raised and waited for him to rethink the suggestion that she was a child. He caught her eye and immediately raised his free hand in a defensive gesture. “I mean, not to say you aren’t mature or anything! But…you’re 17 years old.”

She sighed and looked out ahead again, letting the artist relax. “Funny that you know that when Papá doesn’t.”

“Your father doesn’t know how old you are?”

“No, he does,” she relented bitterly, “he just…forgot.” And then, before she could stop it from slipping off her tongue, she muttered, “Just like he forgot about Maman.” A second later she remembered who she was talking to and snapped her head up to find him looking at her with sad eyes. She looked away immediately. She hated having people look at her like that. “I shouldn’t be talking about this. Let’s change the subject.”

“Oh, um…” the artist paused. “If you want to change the subject that’s fine, but… Um…” She looked back at him to see him chewing his cheek again, looking up at the sky in front of them with frustration painted all over his face.

“What?” she asked impatiently.

He shrugged uncomfortably as he looked back to her. “If you need someone to talk to… You can talk to me.”

She felt her own expression soften, the warmth of the waters in Greece melting her cold interior. “Thanks,” she said, and she meant it. She appreciated the gesture, even if she already knew she wouldn’t be taking advantage of it. She had heard it before—the pitiful _I’m here for you if you need me_ —and she could say with utmost certainty, looking at the artist’s expression in that moment, that he meant it ten times more than anyone ever had when they’d said it to her. She knew that this was no shallow offer and that she probably really could call him and talk about her personal issues if she needed to, and that he would listen and wouldn’t hate her for it.

But she also knew that when it came down to it, her problems were between her and her shower. No one else.

She sighed, wanting to change the subject before he asked further about her father. “So come on,” she said, voice stronger with every word, “I answered your question. More than one if we’re being honest. Tell me why you were about to touch my face with painted hands.”

He laughed then, and the sound soothed her soul. She could feel his demeanor shift into a bubblier atmosphere, and it lifted her along with it, dragging her back out of the pit she’d sunk into. “Okay,” he began, “in my defense, I wasn’t going to touch you. I was holding my hand up for comparison.”

“Comparison of what?”

“Skin tone. The uh… The thing I was painting was a…portrait. And…when I saw you, I kind of got distracted, comparing…the skin tones.” He spoke slowly and pensively, as if thinking hard on each word before letting it out. Making sure not to let something slip.

He was hiding something.

“Why are you acting so suspicious?”

“W-What?” he asked, partially laughing, “I’m not acting suspici—,”

“Yes you are.” He squeezed his lips shut and hunched his shoulders—as if he was a turtle retreating into its shell—and she watched as his face slowly shifted into deeper shades of pink. She stared at him with a slightly sadistic smile, amused by the artist’s embarrassment. “What? Is it a portrait of someone you have a crush on?”

“N-No!” he exclaimed, moving from pink to red. She couldn’t help the laughter that bubbled up out of her as his wild eyes stayed dead set focused on the sidewalk ahead. She could tell from the movement in his cheek that he was chewing on it again, a habit she was realizing he had whenever he intensely thought about something.

“It totally is,” she remarked, sadistic smirk growing as his head sunk down even further into his shoulders. “Is it Marinette?”

“It’s not Marinette!” he said, blush immediately calming as his expression shifted to one of absolute exasperation. She laughed even harder at his annoyance, knowing full well that he’d been combatting teasing remarks about his crush for years, even though everyone knew it had died down long ago. She giggled as he pressed his lips together in irritation, seemingly only more annoyed at her continued entertainment. He side-eyed her with a death glare and she half-heartedly tried to pretend she wasn’t laughing.

“Okay, okay,” she said, waving her hand in the air between them as her giggles slowly dissolved. “It’s not Marinette. But it totally is someone you have a crush on. Is it Adrien?”

He rolled his eyes. “Isn’t it my turn by now?”

She giggled some more. “Alright, fine. Go ahead, crush boy.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Oh I will call you whatever I damn well please.”

He glanced at her again, expression now bearing curiosity where annoyance had been only moments before. “Speaking of which,” he began, “what made you decide to call me Nath?”

She swallowed nervously as an intense fluttering storm whirled through her stomach. She suddenly felt the tips of her fingers shaking from where they rested at her sides and she was thankful he couldn’t see them. She felt nervous and tense and like she might stutter if she didn’t watch her words carefully, but somehow the feeling wasn’t altogether as unpleasant as she would have thought it would be.

She might even say it felt nice. In a weird way.

“I…” she began. But then she didn’t really know how to continue. Why did she call him Nath? It had just slipped out like second nature without her even thinking about it. “I didn’t exactly…make a conscious decision to,” she admitted. She could feel a drop of water roll down the back of her neck, and she wasn’t sure if it was a raindrop or a bead of sweat. “It just kind of…happened. I’ve heard everyone else call you Nath for years; I guess it was just sort of natural… I don’t know.”

She braced herself for the awkward silence that she was sure would follow such a statement, but was surprised when his response was not only immediate, but strong. As if he didn’t even have to think about it.

“I like it.”

That storm spun anew in her stomach and she felt heat rise to her cheeks, a tiny smile tugging at the corners of her lips. She stared straight forward, hoping beyond hope he couldn’t see her reaction. “You do?”

“Yeah,” he replied, voice upbeat and cheery, completely unaware of the flurry of emotions he was stirring in the girl next to him. “Our relationship has been so weird because we spend lots of time with each other even though we weren’t really…friends. You know? At least, we certainly didn’t start on good terms, but now…I don’t know, we’re definitely interacting a lot better than before, and I like that, it’s nice! But I didn’t really know still if I could call you my friend or if you still didn’t really like me or if I wasn’t allowed to be your friend or…” He trailed off and Chloé found herself watching him with wide eyes, waiting on every word that came out of his mouth. He glanced at her and immediately looked away, lifting a hand to scratch the back of his head with a nervous chuckle. “I guess what I’m saying is that I really liked hearing you call me Nath, because it kind of…felt like we really are friends.” He shrugged, a dusting of blush rising to his cheeks, and looked at her again. “I-Is that…okay? Are we…? Can we…be friends?”

Why was her heart beating so hard? Why did her face feel so warm? Why did she feel so body numbingly nervous at being asked by the dorky art kid if they could be _friends_??

Still, her stomach rolled over itself as she nodded. “Yeah. I think I’d like that.”

Greece.

Pure, unfiltered bliss washed through her being as he blessed her with quite possibly the most beautiful smile she’d ever seen on anyone—her model childhood friend included. Bright, shining, shimmering, warm teal eyes and pale cheeks with that lovely rosy hue rising to their surface and perfect white teeth under thin pink lips all practically glowing in the backdrop of grey from the clouds above.

She was suddenly very aware of the rise and fall of her chest with labored breathing, her heart working on overdrive.

How had she gone so long without realizing? How had she been in class with him for twelve years and never seen it? She couldn’t believe she had never realized that…

“Me too.”

…Nathaniel Kurtzberg was one of the most beautiful people she’d ever seen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH MY GOODNESS YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW LONG I HAVE BEEN SITTING ON THIS FRICKIN SCENE JUST TRYING TO WRITE IT AND SHARE WITH Y'ALL I HAVE BEEN SCREAMING I'M SO GLAD I COULD FINALLY POST IT


	19. Everybody Wants To Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "That's the beauty of a secret. You know you're supposed to keep it." -Halsey, Strange Love

Nino liked to think of himself as a simple man. He was your average, go with the flow dude. He went to school, jammed out to music, and spent time with friends. He was pretty chill, never really losing his cool, and he kept to his own. Just your average, go with the flow guy.

Maybe that’s why he’d chosen a girlfriend who was an absolute nutcase.

“I’m telling you, Alya, you’re imagining it.”

Nino shut the door to his locker and leaned against it with arms crossed to face the over-caffeinated conspiracy theorist as she dug around for her books. The beautiful young woman that was his girlfriend going on four years looked nearly as crazy as she was with her wild curly hair tossed about her head and her glasses on the tip of her nose about to fall off as she rummaged through her locker.

The school day had ended ages ago, but a “catastrophe” in the final draft of the yearbook had held them on campus an extra twenty minutes. (The only class picture where Juleka’s face wasn’t covered had somehow gone missing and Rose was _not_ about to let her girlfriend’s camera-phobia come back. Luckily, Alya’s obsessive snooping skills had allowed her to track down the photo deep in the computer’s history).

“I am so _NOT_ imagining it, Nino! _I_ am telling _you_ , there has been a shift in the air! A changing of the tides! A turning of tables!”

“I don’t think that expression works like tha—,”

“Think about it!” she interrupted, slamming her locker shut. “Wait, shit, my phone is in there.” He watched on with an amused smile as she fumbled with the combination lock some more. “But seriously,” she continued, “when was the last time you heard Chloé snap at someone over something trivial? It was weeks ago— _weeks ago_ —when she tried to pick on Nathaniel for apparently looking at her! And do you remember what happened?” She finally got it open again and rummaged around for her phone. “He totally stood up to her! _Nathaniel_. He never does that! The poor boy has been letting that bully walk all over him for years—Aha!” She held her phone up in triumph before finally closing the locker door and turning to face him. Nino chuckled and draped an arm over her shoulder as they began making their way toward the school entrance. He had learned long ago not to try and hold her hand when she was on a rant.

“So a shy kid decided to stand up to his bully, that doesn’t mean—,”

“But Nino, he didn’t just _stand up to her_ , he was completely calm and confident about it,” she argued, waving her hands around to elaborate. “It was like he had practice or something!”

“Maybe he rehearsed talking back to her in the mirror or something. You do that sometimes.”

“Okay but what about the pants??”

Nino groaned. “Alya, you gotta let go of the pants.”

“ _I will not let go of the pants, Nino_ ,” she replied in a threatening hiss. “Chloé Bourgeois does not simply decide to start wearing blue jeans one day! I refuse to believe it was a coincidence!”

“So what do you think is going on, he’s sworn revenge on her and is exacting it by standing up to her in class and replacing all her pants with blue jeans?”

“No no no, you’re getting it all wrong,” she replied, apparently taking him seriously. “They’re clearly—!,”

She interrupted herself with a gasp, stopping dead in her tracks.

“Alya? What’s—Hey!” Next thing he knew he was being violently shoved behind a nearby pillar. “What the hell are you—?”

“ _Shh_!” Her snoop mode had been activated. Alya had her head poked out from behind the pillar, eyes dead set on the school entrance. For a moment, Nino worried that his journalist girlfriend was about to get him wrapped up in the middle of an akuma attack again, but when he stuck his head out to follow her gaze, the scene he was greeted with was far far worse.

Oh he was never going to hear the end of it.

* * *

 _Howl’s Moving Castle_ is a lovely film complete with breathtaking landscapes, compelling characters, and a fun, adventurous plot. It was one of Adrien’s all-time favorite movies, and if he hadn’t already seen it at least 30 times, he might be bothered by the fact that he was completely missing it. But he had to admit, he was far more interested in Marinette’s lips in that moment.

She tasted like the m&m’s she had been eating before he’d distracted her, with a hint of salt from the popcorn they’d been sharing earlier. He heard sounds of Howl flying over the war coming from her abandoned laptop near their feet, but all he could think of was Marinette’s tongue and the way it was curling around his own, Marinette’s fingers and the way they sifted through his hair, Marinette’s legs and the way they were tangling with his own, Marinette, Marinette, Ma—

“ _MARINETTE!_ ” They both sprang apart, jumping out of their own skins as Alya burst through the trap door into the room, screaming. His counterpart was immediately alert and moving to climb down from the bed, but Adrien wasn’t quite ready to move yet, plopping onto his back on the bed as his head drifted through a sugar sweet daze, still high off her kisses. Added to the sound of the rain furiously tapping against the windows, he could probably be lulled into a nice cat nap right then and there. He was sure whatever over-dramatic crisis Alya was having could be resolved without his help anyway.

“Alya? Is something wrong?” Marinette asked as she made her way down the ladder. Adrien could hear more footsteps coming up into the room and assumed Nino was trailing behind his girlfriend, quiet and probably rolling his eyes.

“CHLOÉ AND NATHANIEL ARE DATING.”

Adrien sprang up from the bed.

“We don’t know that for sur—,”

“OH PLEASE, NINO, YOU SAW THEM JUST AS WELL AS I DID!”

“Saw them doing what exactly?” Adrien asked as he scrambled down from the bed. The two guests both looked up at him, having not realized he was there. Now that he had sight of the action, he could see that Alya had taken her fervent screaming grasp on Marinette’s shoulders and Nino had his arms crossed in his skeptical, my-girlfriend-is-crazy way.

“Adrien!” the journalist exclaimed with an excited spark in her eyes that made him want to go back up the ladder and out onto the balcony instead of coming closer. “You’re friends with Chloé! Spill!” He shared a nervous glance with Marinette—a glance that Alya didn’t miss. “What? What’s going on? I’m right, aren’t I? They’re totally dating!”

“We don’t…” Marinette began, trailing off and looking to him for help.

“We don’t really know,” Adrien finished. “But we’ve been wondering for a while.”

“Because of the pants, right?”

“ _Oh my goodness_ ,” Nino groaned.

“What? Pants?” Adrien asked, suddenly ten times more confused than he already was. He looked to Nino for help, but he just had his head in his hand.

Instead, it was Marinette who explained, “Alya’s been obsessing over Chloé’s switch to blue jeans for a while now.” Then she turned back to Alya. “No, it wasn’t the pants.”

“Then what? Have you been holding out on me Dupain-Cheng??” Still holding onto her shoulders, Alya shook the designer back and forth as if she could shake the information out of her.

“We didn’t tell you because it’s information we learned as Ladybug and Chat Noir, not as Marinette and Adrien,” she responded, squeezing Alya’s arms to try and get her to stop. She stopped shaking, but didn’t let go of her shoulders.

“Oh. Well that makes sense. So? What is it??”

The duo shared another glance. “We can’t tell you,” Marinette said with a frown.

“We were asked to keep it a secret,” he finished for her. Adrien expected Alya to frown and begin begging. Maybe he expected her to pull up some dirt that she had on the both of them, threatening to expose it if they didn’t tell her.

She didn’t do any of that.

Rather, she smiled, and turned to Nino with _a look_.

“They’re totally dating.”

Nino rolled his eyes.

“Why? What did you see?” She spun back to him, her eyes ablaze with the passion of reporting a big scoop.

“So imagine: As Nino and I are leaving the school, we see out in front of us, the school entrance. The rain is still coming down hard as it has been all day, and Chloé seems to have forgotten an umbrella. But she’s in luck! Because standing there, holding one out over her, is Nathaniel! _Nathaniel_ ,” she repeated for emphasis. “Not just that! But Chloé is looking up at him like he’s offering her so much more than an umbrella! Like he’s offering her the world! And I swear on my journalistic integrity,” she paused for dramatic effect, glancing back and forth between Adrien and Marinette to make sure she had their attention, “Chloé was _blushing_.”

Adrien looked to his best friend for confirmation. “Nino?”

The DJ had been standing there with his lips pursed and his arms crossed, probably having been hearing his girlfriend’s conspiracy theory for hours, maybe even days, but he grimaced and lifted a hand to readjust his cap nervously. “I can’t deny, it really was a…a look.” He shrugged. “And her cheeks were definitely a little flushed.”

“Ha!”

“BUT WE STILL DON’T KNOW,” Nino exclaimed over his girlfriend’s victory humming and dancing.

“You’re just mad because you were wrong,” she taunted. He crossed his arms again and hunched his shoulders, grumbling to himself. Adrien looked to his own girlfriend and she looked back, her deep blue eyes asking him for confirmation. He shrugged.

“It does kind of sound like…” he began.

“That’s what I was thinking,” she finished.

“Like what?” Nino asked.

“Like the Adrinette origin story, right??” Alya asked excitedly.

“The what?”

Adrien smiled as Marinette scratched the back of her head, a tiny blush coming to her cheeks. “It sounds kind of like how I first fell for Adrien. He…” she looked up at him and he melted inside seeing that loving smile on her lips, “…offered me his umbrella.”

“Honestly, Nino, how did you not know that story? It’s a _classic_.”

“Well Adrien probably didn’t talk about it because back then, _Marinette was just a friend_ ,” Marinette teased. He glared at her.

“You’re never going to let that go, are you?” Her only response was to stick her tongue out.

“But you see, Nino? I’m _not_ crazy! I’ve got to text Rose,” she said, pulling out her phone and immediately beginning to type furiously. “If anyone will know any details, it’s her. Or maybe Alix, or I could ask Ju—,”

Both he and Marinette surged forward, grabbing Alya’s hands as they both unleashed a flurry of ‘no’s.

“You can’t tell anyone,” Marinette blurted.

“But—,”

“Whatever’s going on, they don’t want people to know,” he continued.

The journalist whined.

“Please, Alya,” Marinette pleaded. “We promised them we wouldn’t tell anyone _as Ladybug and Chat Noir_.” Alya frowned, pouting. Her best friend pouted back, giving her the puppy dog eyes. “Please, Alya? For me?”

She stared. And stared. And stared. The two pouted back and forth, a battle of will.

Finally, the journalist broke. “UGH, fine! But only because I love you! I’ll keep this under wraps _for now_. But if those two keep getting cozy, it’s going to become harder to keep this a secret! The people have a right to—!”

Just then, the lights went out right as a particularly loud crack of thunder shattered the air outside.

“ _Marinette? Are you alright?_ ” Sabine called from downstairs.

“Yeah, Maman, we’re okay!” she called back. “The storm must’ve caused a power outage,” she noted, walking over to the window to glance outside. The other three followed, casting their eyes out at the raging summer storm. The rain had grown to be a thick blanket, casting the city in shadow as sporadic flashes of lightening offered the only illumination to be seen.

Adrien rested his chin atop Marinette’s head as he snaked his arms down around her waist.

“Looks like it’ll be a Thursday night in.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick interlude before we get to some bigger stuff. I'm sorry for the long wait. :(


	20. Ocean Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s hard to miss the way her eyes light up the room and steal the air.” –Go Radio, Goodnight Moon.

Breathing even. Eyes passive. Expressionless, Chloé stared at the assignment in her hand. The assignment she had gotten back earlier that day—a mere in-class assignment she had made with watercolor the previous week. The stargazer lily depicted on the course piece of paper looked almost picture perfect, with its petals perfectly shaded like creamy silk toward their outer edges, with the deep pink of the center beautifully bleeding into them. The real winning touch was the specks of dark magenta that she had perfectly scattered across the flower with deliberate flicks of her brush, a technique the redhead had shared with her weeks ago. Not only that, but she had even made the stamen different shades of yellow and orange according to the angles they were facing with regard to where she had chosen the lighting source to be coming from.

It really was the perfect lily.

She flipped back to the page clipped on the front. The page containing a scoring rubric with all 5’s circled. The page with the messy cursive note _“Maybe something other than flowers next time?”_

The page with the big A- stamped on the top corner.

“Man, it is really coming down hard out there.” Keeping her cool as much as possible, Chloé hurriedly shoved the piece back in her bag, not having noticed when the redhead re-emerged from the bathroom, hands now paint free.

“Yeah, it is,” she mumbled, tossing her bag aside. He didn’t notice in the slightest, his teal eyes fixated on the window.

She followed his gaze to the window immediately to her right. The steady downpour that had greeted her at the school’s front entrance hadn’t let up—in fact it was now getting stronger with the addition of heavy wind. Rain battered against the glass with a force she might think would break it if she didn’t know any better. The street outside had begun transforming into some sort of river, with the wind occasionally picking up waves of spray. She hated to think of what could have happened if they had waited any longer before walking home.

Her hair could have been an absolute mess.

“Maybe it’s perfect.”

Chloé snapped her head back to the artist. He was taking a seat at the table with her and she wondered if he was drawing his chair closer to her than usual, or if he had been slowly positioning it closer and closer over time. Either way, the space between them seemed so much less than it used to be, and she couldn’t help but feel a strange warmth at the thought.

“What?”

He nodded toward the window. “For finishing up your project. I don’t know,” he shrugged, “I get really inspired in storms. Maybe you will too.” He turned to look at the nearly-finished piece sitting on its easel a meter away. “It’s due tomorrow, right?”

She looked up at her painting, analyzing and inwardly frowning at every stray mark on the canvas. It was nearly done now. She had finished up coloring in the sky in their last session. It now glowed in a grey that came to life with the slightest touch of light blue, and there were even some beams of light shining down that Nathaniel had helped her imitate after she’d made one by accident by thinning out the paint too much while swiping it across the canvas. A happy accident, she had decided. Now all that was left was to color in the grass, which would be more complicated since there was more texture in grass than there was in empty sky, but nevertheless achievable.

“Yeah,” she replied. “It’s due tomorrow.”

“Well then,” he said, looking rather chipper as he turned to her again, “shall we?”

Why did such a simple smile on him make her stomach churn like that?

She found herself smiling as her eyes traversed every feature his face had to offer—all the way from the piece of silver metal stuck through his red eyebrow to the tiny curve of his thin pink lips. Soon those bright teal eyes widened the slightest bit and that smile grew to reveal some teeth. “What?”

He was smiling at her smiling at him. She didn’t know what that meant or even why it made her so happy, but she smiled even more as a result. “Nothing,” she said. “Let’s get started.”

And just then, as if on cue, a loud crack of thunder and a terrifyingly close flash of lightning left them in the dark.

* * *

A tiny drop of green paint. Miniscule. Just the slightest touch meticulously mixed into the green-tinted grey that coated each and every blade of grass. The careful dip of a thin brush. Then the deliberate, delicate touch of brush to canvas. The gentle strokes bringing that touch of slightly-greener-grey to the very center of the first blade of grass all the way over to the left. Tiny flicks of the brush dragging that shadow out from the center of the blade in the little veins of water that traverse it.

And then, the next. And the next.

Nathaniel watched, a steady, glowing warmth blooming in his chest as Chloé paid each and every blade of grass the attention it deserved, bringing each one into perfectly shaded, stunning detail. Her hand was so steady, so perfectly tuned to the movements she needed to make with her brush to create just the right lines. Never had he felt any particular urge to draw hands, but bathed in the soft light of the candle flame, they really were so aesthetically pleasing.

Just like her.

Why hadn’t he created scenes of candlelight before? It really was such a beautiful thing, practically deifying everything it illuminated with a heavenly glow. Chloé’s features were always beautiful—achingly so—but seeing the light of a flame dance shadows across her face was a whole new experience entirely. It shone a light on yet another level of her beauty.

Her eyes were especially vibrant in such a natural light source. Their cold blue complexion was always bright, alive, daring, but in such a dark room, with only a candle to light the way, they were practically luminescent. It was as if her eyes caught every fraction of light they could and beamed it back. Nathaniel had been stealing glances here and there as stealthily as he could, ever captivated by the scene in detailed reality before him. He wished he could stare at her eyes for hours on end, not only to burn the image into his mind for recreating it later, but even just to experience it. Just to immerse himself in the near euphoria that was—

“Can you bring the candle more over here?”

Chloé pointed to the bottom right corner of her canvas, where the grass had yet to receive its finishing touches like all the other blades had. Nathaniel stepped the slightest bit closer to her, holding the candle out to light the way for her painting. They had been like this for hours, both of them standing together by the canvas, Chloé meticulously giving life to each blade of grass while he kept the candlelight nearby for her. She was nearly done now and as much as Nathaniel’s arms were looking forward to a break, there was the slightest bit of him that didn’t want this to stop.

Chloé took a particularly deep breath, and for just a fraction of a second, he could feel the cold skin of her arm brush against him. He had been slowly seeping deeper into intoxication by the scent of her perfume with each passing minute, and every little shift and sound she made had him on edge.

It was the storm. Nathaniel had always been this way in thunderstorms—alert, tense, on edge, but in a good way. In an exciting way. Thunderstorms took the energy that the night hours seemed to give him and amplified it tenfold. He felt alive in a storm—so much more alive than usual—and in that moment, all that energy seemed to be focusing itself on _her_. On her beautiful, skilled hands; on her dazzling, piercing eyes; on her soft, angelic hair—her _hair!_

Feeling the strokes of his pencil while he drew her hair was one thing, and painting them onto a canvas with his own fingers another, but what would it be to really feel those silken strands under his palm? To thread his fingers through them and comb along the entire length, trailing all the way down her waist. To let his fingertips dance along the soft fabric of her sweater. To smooth his hand along her spine. To pull her into him and feel the beat of her heart on his chest and the ghost of her breath on his skin as it escaped perfect, glossy lips. Lips he had drawn time and time again, always being sure to make them shine the way they always did, so pink and so flawless and looking so damn soft. Would they feel as soft as they looked? Would her lips be soft against the skin of his fingers? Against the skin of his li—

“Nath?”

He jerked his head up, suddenly aware of a heavy pounding in his chest. “W-What?”

She was looking at him. Azure eyes, peachy skin, cherry blossom lips; all glowing, glistening, and absolutely breathtaking under the light of the single flame held between them.

“What do you think…?” she repeated, blonde eyebrows knitting together in confusion as blue eyes darted about his features, observing him for answers to his strange _strange_ behavior.

The painting. She was asking about the painting. The art. The reason he was there.

He tore his eyes away from the masterpiece of a human being standing before him and forced himself to look at her work instead.

It was…also a masterpiece.

“Wow,” he said, letting his gut reaction have a voice as he took it in. The colors were…brilliant. Brilliant in their subtlety. They were so perfectly subdued in a semi-saturated greyscale along the length of the entire piece, only to be so chokingly interrupted by the bright, glaring, clashing vibrancy of the flowers. Every vein of every blade of grass was detailed to perfection—there were even visible dew drops on some of them—and the sky shone with heavenly rays of light casting patchy shadows on the objects below. It was all absolutely, beautifully, strikingly perfect.

“Wow, what? Wow, it looks so plain? Wow, it needs more work? Wow, how can she possibly create something so boring after so many weeks of tutoring? Wow, what??”

Nathaniel couldn’t help but chuckle as he finally cast his gaze upon her again, delighting in the adorable way her nose was scrunched up, lips puckered in irritation. “No,” he responded amidst lighthearted laughter. “Wow, it looks amazing. Good work, Chloé.”

She dropped the tension from her shoulders with a sigh and looked at the painting again. “Really?” She was scrutinizing it, no doubt focusing on every little flaw she could find with it. He knew that look. That was the look of an artist who had been staring at their own canvas for too long, and could see nothing but its shortcomings.

He bumped her shoulder, smiling when she startled the slightest bit. “Really. It looks great. I think it’s done.”

She smiled then, perfect pink lips turning up just the slightest bit at the corners and a hard thump in his chest suddenly reminded Nathaniel of where his mind had been only minutes before.

He quickly looked away, a bead of sweat trickling down the back of his neck despite the steadily dropping temperature in the room. Jeez, the storm was really getting to his head. A part of him was relishing in it—even wanted to embrace it further. Travel a dark, obscured road in his mind.

Maybe he ought to go home before he gave into the temptation of that untraveled path calling out to him now. It wasn’t quite time to leave yet, but maybe since she was done with her project—

Nathaniel’s phone chimed then, as if even a kilometer away his mother could hear his very thoughts.

He glanced at Chloé as he pulled the device out of his pocket. She wasn’t looking at him, instead occupying herself with putting away her paint supplies.

“Hi Maman.”

* * *

_Red, orange, yellow, green—wait, where did the blushy pink color go? In between red and orange? That looks right. Okay, green, blue, blue-green—wait, no. Blue-green needs to go in between blue and green. Duh. Great, so blue, indigo, violet. And then black. Should brown go before or after black? What color even is brown? And what about white? And grey? They’re effectively colors that lack color, right? So where in the proper rainbow order would they even go?_

Chloé ground her teeth together in thought as she meticulously sought to organize her tubes of paint in proper order before putting them away in her supply drawer. She needed to focus on something stupid like that and _not_ listen to the redhead’s conversation with his mother on the phone. She needed to not focus on the redhead in general. She had finally managed to push him from her mind enough to finish her stupid project, _even with him standing right next to her the entire time, radiating heat and smelling like spiced citrus and just generally existing to frustrate her_. That had been an entire feat of its own.

Now the painting was done and there was nothing for her mind to focus on but the way she felt so constantly drawn to him, as if his body heat was reaching out and encompassing her entire being bit by bit.

She stole a glance at him, still holding the cell phone up to his ear with his right hand while his left held the candle out toward the table in front of them. She smiled. He hadn’t even stepped away to talk to his mother, instead staying near her to lend her light as she put her things away.

He was…really sweet.

Her eyes had just begun trailing a path over the wispy strands of red hair that framed his face when she realized his gaze had traveled back to her. She quickly looked away, grabbing her soiled paint brushes and thrusting them into the water cup to start washing them.

He was just too pretty. That was the problem. He was too pretty and she just didn’t know how to deal with it yet. And he just made it all that much worse by smiling at her. Really though, how dare he smile at her like that? He had no idea the effect it had on her—no idea how it made her breath catch in her throat or how it made her heart race. He had no idea the fireworks he was setting off in her stomach just by doing something so simple as _bumping her with his shoulder. No. Idea._

“Um…Chloé?”

Her brushes were far past clean.

She took them out and started drying them on a paper towel as she met Nathaniel’s beautiful teal gaze in silent question.

“Maman is wondering…” he averted his gaze and though it might have just been a trick of the candlelight, she was pretty sure a rosy hue had taken to his cheeks, “…if I can stay here until the storm calms down.”

Chloé blinked.

“She doesn’t want me walking home in this, and apparently the roads are dangerous. She said it’s supposed to calm down in a few hours…” Those ocean eyes meandered back to her and sent a tumbling, crashing wave rolling through her every nerve. “Is that okay?”

“Yes,” she answered before really thinking about it. She supposed that was fine; it really _was_ okay for him to stay longer. It wasn’t like they didn’t have enough food for dinner or anything, and the chances that her father would be present for dinner when the hotel was without power were infinitely small. It just meant that she would be taking her usual shower a little later than usual. No big deal.

He smiled his thanks and she forced herself to look away before he saw the heat rising to her cheeks. Nathaniel was going to stay at her house longer. For a few hours. With no art tutoring to do. Just the two of them…alone…in a storm.

Why did she feel so strangely…excited?


	21. Close To You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Standing in the eye of the storm, my eyes start to roll to the curl of your lips.” –Troye Sivan, Touch.

“Is this…normal?”

Chloé looked up from her dinner to meet the gaze of the redhead sitting in the seat adjacent hers at the table. Normally a dinner table with only two people at it would have them seated at the opposing ends, but she had asked Simon to set his place at the corner next to her end instead. Her formal excuse was that they only had a single candle to light the room—all of the electric lanterns and other candles that the hotel had scraped up had needed to be allocated to the guests—and thus would need to sit near one another to share the light. Her secondary excuse was that the place at the other end of the table belonged to her father and that it would feel wrong to have anyone else sit there.

But the real reason?

The real reason she’d wanted the redhead there at her side while they ate dinner was quite simply because the table was so achingly long that even with someone at the other end, it never failed to leave her cold and alone—locked in solitude at her place at the end. She had already experienced enough of that barrier of space eating dinner with her father. She didn’t want that with Nathaniel too.

She looked down at her plate containing a bowl of gourmet cold soup—Chef Cesaire’s solution to serving a hotel full of hungry guests without power—and a slice of bread. She assumed he was talking about the food.

“For soup to be cold? Hot soup is definitely more common, but cold soups are a thing,” she answered.

“No, not the soup,” he said, putting down his spoon. Uh oh. If he was putting down his utensils, it probably meant he was going to talk about something— “I meant, for you to eat without your father.” –serious.

Chloé cast a long glance down at the other end of the table where her father’s seat remained empty. Simon hadn’t even set his place, having informed her that he was needed tending to the hotel amidst a blackout.

She shrugged off the pain, pushing it away as she turned back to her food. “Yeah,” she remarked passively. “He misses dinner probably two or three nights a week.”

When the redhead didn’t say anything in response, Chloé picked her head back up to look at him.

Those teal eyes were warm in a way that didn’t warm her soul. They were sad. They were looking at her—looking _into_ her—with a certain caring and compassion that she was no stranger to. A caring and compassion that was not welcomed.

Pity.

She stared back at him and frowned.

“What?” he asked, going off of her obvious displeasure.

She rolled her eyes. “Alright, if we’re going to be friends, we need to get one thing straight, here and now.” She stuck her index finger up near his nose for emphasis and was slightly pleased to find that he didn’t flinch away. “You cannot look at me like that. This isn’t the first time you’ve done it, but I want it to be the last. I have no use for your pity. I don’t want it.”

Nathaniel’s expression deepened, transforming itself into a harder, colder sort of sorrow. “Okay,” he finally said, voice quiet. “I won’t look at you like that.”

She lowered her hand and dipped her spoon in the soup, expecting that to be the end of the conversation.

“But…doesn’t it bother you? When he isn’t here?”

She clenched her jaw shut, locking her vision straight ahead.

“It’s fine,” she finally responded.

“Chloé…”

She leveled her gaze with him then, about to tell him off. But the genuine care and worry that she was met with gave her pause. Whatever venomous words had been on her tongue dissipated. She closed her mouth and softened her expression just the slightest bit.

With just a drop of true color bleeding into soft words, she said, “This is how it is, Nathaniel. It’s fine.”

* * *

“So wait, she seriously hid in the bathroom for six hours??” Nathaniel nodded, laughing too hard to possibly give her a verbal response. She was much the same, shaking with laughter as he recounted a story about his crazy mother.

“She really did,” he wheezed. “Then when Maman figured out she was in there, she had to spend another hour getting her to come out.”

“How did she do it?”

“Threatened to hide her laptop.”

“Really? Just that?”

“Oh yes, Mum can’t go a day without her technology.”

He and Chloé giggled another few seconds, letting the laughter of the moment take its full course before settling down. As her mouth came back to its resting position, she realized her cheeks were the slightest bit sore—a pain she hadn’t felt in what seemed an eternity. A joyous pain. A pain she would gladly take any day.

The redhead sat across the couch from her, both of them sitting with their backs propped up against an arm at either end. The candle sat on the coffee table next to them, offering just enough light to make out each other’s main features, but not much else unless they got closer. Every once in a while a stroke of lightning would flash, lighting up the entire room for just a brief second, and Chloé would be left with his silhouette imprinted on the inside of her eyes.

“So then…” she began, “the one that you call Mum…that’s the journalist?”

In the outer edges of the candle’s glow, she could just barely make out the Cheshire grin that spread across his face. “Is that a question?”

She grinned in response, willingly entering this game with him. “You trying to start something, Kurtzberg?”

“Let’s go, Bourgeois.”

She chuckled, resting her arm over the back of the couch as she drew her knees up toward her chest. “Alright, question for a question it is then. So your Mum?”

“Yes, Mum is the journalist, Abigail, and Maman is named Lorraine.”

“What does she do?”

“Ah-ah,” he taunted, shifting so that his legs were crossed underneath him like a kid in preschool. “It’s my turn.”

She rolled her eyes with a smile, not that he could see it. “Okay, go.”

“Did you just roll your eyes at me?” Her gaze snapped back to him.

“Can you see in the dark?”

Then he was laughing. “I knew it! No, I can’t see you, but I heard it in your voice.”

“You heard me roll my eyes?” she asked, disbelief thick in her tone.

She could see him lift his hands in a shrugging sort of gesture. “I guess I’m just getting to know your mannerisms.”

She chuckled, shaking her head. “So was that your question?”

“I mean, even if it was, you asked two questions in response, so either way, it’s still my turn.”

She rolled her eyes. “Okay, just go Kurtzberg.” He paused. “What?”

“You just rolled your eyes again.”

“ _Oh my goodness,_ just ask your question already!” She stuck her foot out to prod his knee in a gentle sort of kick.

He laughed, clearly pleased with himself. “Okay, okay, um…” he thought for a moment. “What’s your favorite animal?”

Chloé blinked, surprised, and then surprised at her own surprise.

“Chloé?”

“I uh… That’s such a normal question,” she stated lamely.

“What do you mean?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know. I think I’ve just gotten used to you asking me hard hitting questions.”

She felt more than heard his regression and before he could even say it, she was already reaching her foot out toward him, just to settle it on his leg in what she hoped was a comforting gesture. “I’m sorry,” he said softly, and she nearly cut him off before he finished.

“No, don’t be.” She was surprised at her own honesty as she spoke. “I don’t mind when you do, I promise.”

“But I feel like I ask you about things you don’t want to talk about. Things that hurt you even.”

She paused, thinking over her words one by one. “You do. But…it’s okay.” She smiled softly and wondered if he could see it. “Rest assured that I’ll never answer a question I don’t want to.”

She could hear more than see him smile. “I don’t doubt that.”

“Good,” she replied, moving on. “Jellyfish.”

“Jellyfish?”

“Jellyfish. That’s my favorite animal.”

“Why?”

She bit her lip. “Don’t judge me?”

“I make no promises.” She kicked him again and he laughed. “Okay, I won’t judge.”

“One time when I was little, I had gotten in an argument with my father while we were at the beach on a family vacation. He had made me sit out on the sand in punishment while he and the rest of my family got to enjoy the water. And well,” she looked down and started picking at her nails, a slightly ashamed in retrospect, “there turned out to be a lot of jellyfish out that day. So, well, my whole family got stings except me, and six-year-old me felt like the jellyfish were on my side, avenging me like some sort of karma or something. So I…have liked them ever since.”

The words hung in the air between them for a few moments before the man across from her slowly dissolved into raucous laughter.

“I told you not to judge me!” she yelled over his laughter, repeatedly kicking him. He raised his arms in a weak attempt to defend himself as he laughed even harder, attempting to spit words out in between.

“I’m not judging you! I just think that’s really,” he paused to laugh some more, “hilarious.”

“You don’t think it’s petty?”

“Well sure,” he said, now down to a light chuckle, “but you were six. Plus, I think anyone would react that way, even at our age. I know I would at least.” In the darkness, she could just barely see him flashing her that beautiful smile that she so adored and before she could even think about it she was smiling too, feeling warm despite the storm outside.

“So what does Lorraine do?”

“Oh right! Maman is a kindergarten teacher. Children drive her crazy, but she loves them.”

 _I can relate._ The words rolled through her mind without warning and she was immediately taken aback. She was glad to have the cover of darkness in that moment, because she was sure an existential crisis of sorts was playing on her face. Thankfully, the artist went on, completely oblivious.

“Okay, my turn. If you could go anywhere in the world, where would you go?”

That question effectively tore her out of her thoughts. “Easy,” she replied immediately, “Greece.”

“Why Greece?”

“Because I love it there. I’ve gone there on vacation a few times. Love the water.”

“Huh. I’ll have to go there someday,” he pondered. “Your turn.”

Chloé thought for a second, then remembered something she had been wondering about for a while. “You don’t have to answer this if you don’t want to,” she began, treading lightly on what she thought might be a sensitive area. She proceeded to fumble her words a bit, unsure of how to phrase it. “Um… Are you… Well… Your mothers… Abigail and Lorraine… Which… Um…”

“Which one am I biologically related to?”

“I’m sorry,” she immediately said, “I probably shouldn’t ask that.”

“No, no, don’t worry,” he said, a light-hearted laugh on his voice. “Here,” he said. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and then shifted toward her. She moved forward too, meeting him in the middle as he lifted the stingingly bright screen for her to see. With their shoulders pressed against one another, she could immediately feel the comforting presence of his heat settling over her.

The picture he held up for her looked like it had been taken within the past year, given Nathaniel’s height. He stood in the middle with his arms around the shoulders of two women, both slightly shorter than him. “That’s Lorraine,” he said, pointing to the woman on the left. Her skin was somewhat darker than the other two, and she had brown eyes and long curly brown hair that fell down around her shoulders in waves. “And that’s Abigail,” he pointed to the other woman—a woman with pale skin, freckles, teal eyes, and bright scarlet hair.

“So you’re related to Abigail,” she concluded.

“Yep!” he replied, turning to look at her with a wide smile. “But Lorraine was the one who carried me, so in a way I’m biologically related to both of them.”

“Wait, like…she was the surrogate?”

“Yep!”

“Wow,” she said, analyzing the picture. “That’s…really cool actually.”

He laughed. “Isn’t it?”

She squinted at the picture, a sudden thought occurring to her. She reached out and zoomed the picture in on Nathaniel.

“You…” she began, staring at the picture in a mixture of disbelief and awe, “…have freckles.”

“Oh,” he said, chuckling. “Yeah, they come out in the Summer.”

_That’s really cute._

She had to clamp her jaw shut so that her immediate reaction didn’t bubble to the surface. It was hard. Staring at him with his red hair pulled back with a pair of purple sunglasses and his teal eyes shining bright and…a beautiful constellation of dots scattered over his nose and cheeks…

She was holding her breath. She had to. She felt like she was going to scream with how stupidly cute he looked.

“Um,” she eventually uttered, voice as quiet as a mouse, “your turn.”

He put away the phone and she had to blink as her eyes readjusted to the dark room. “Okay um…” He shifted back the slightest bit in order to face her, but she noted that he hadn’t moved back to the end of the couch. She faced him too, settling into a comfortable position with her knees drawn up and resting against his legs. She found herself feeling a lot less cold with him sitting so close. “Do you speak any language aside from French?” he eventually asked.

She shrugged. “English. Other than that, just some common phrases in various languages. Italian, Spanish, Chinese, a sprinkling of German; you know, for travelling purposes.”

 _“Oh, you speak English?”_ he asked, in English. His grammar and pronunciation was all fine and great—he didn’t even have much of a French accent—but she still shuddered, hating the way the words sounded on his tongue.

“I think I prefer you in French, thank you.”

He laughed. “Was it that bad?”

“No, you speak it well. It just sounds wrong. And it certainly doesn’t help that it’s an ugly language. French is way sexier.”

There was a slight pause, and sitting so close now she could clearly make out the smile on his lips, but it was a different one than she’d seen before. She was trying to decipher it when he dropped it and simply replied, “Agreed.”

She cleared her throat, trying to get that image out of her mind. “Your English is really good though. You almost sound native to England.”

He flashed a grin that put her at ease with its familiarity. “Thanks! I learned it from Mum growing up. She’s from England originally.”

“Do you speak any other languages?”

“Nah,” he shrugged. Then he corrected, “well not unless you count music, and I guess—,”

“You read music!?” she blurted out, equal parts surprised and excited.

He stared at her, and even though he had been wearing a passive smile for the past hour or so, there was no joy in his expression then. “Yeah, I do.”

“What instrument do you play?” He pursed his lips, glancing away. Seeing him react in such a way, she felt cold worry creep at the edges of her mind. “What?”

“I played the clarinet,” he said, forcing himself to meet her eyes again. He looked really uncomfortable all of a sudden, really small and…

“That’s right,” she said, realization dawning on her. “You did.” Memories of her 10-year-old self flashed through her mind. A little over a year after her mother died. When she learned that the best way to get what she wanted from other people was fear. “And I bullied you for it. A lot.”

He wasn’t moving away from her physically, but he was most definitely withdrawn. “Yeah,” he said, shrugging as if it were no big deal, even though it so very clearly was.

“I-I’m…” she struggled to push the words out, already knowing how absolutely useless they were this time. Nevertheless, she said them anyway. “I’m so sorry.”

“Chloé…” His expression immediately shifted to one of exasperation, frustration, some annoyance, and maybe even a little guilt as he sighed and pushed his fingers back through his hair and stared at the window across the room where rain still drummed a steady, menacing beat. “It was years ago. It’s fine.”

“No,” she refuted, “it’s not. I called you names, I hid your instrument, I—,”

“Chloé.” The sound of her name then was both sharp and gentle somehow as he stared at her with tired eyes and placed a hand on her knee as a physical signal to pause. “I know that’s not who you are now. It’s fine.”

She ground her teeth as she stared back at him, just looking back and forth between his eyes, only boasting a fraction of their natural hue in the subdued lighting. His gaze was steady, resolute. His fingers on her knee tightened just the slightest bit.

She looked away. “It sounded like you were going to say something else before I interrupted you. Another language…?”

All tension seemed to drop from his body then as he chuckled, though his tone still carried the dwindling aftereffects of the previous conversation. “No, I don’t speak another language,” he said, smiling to himself.

“I feel like you’re lying to me.”

He looked her in the eye then, a strange sort of self-deprecating smile on his lips. Then he rolled his eyes. “Okay, I _sort of_ know another language, but it…it isn’t real.”

“Did you make up your own language?”

“No,” he hurriedly replied. “I didn’t make it up. Um… Magma did.”

She blinked. “Magma…? The t-shirt band?”

He sighed. “Yep.”

Her brow slowly furrowed in confusion. “I’m sorry, what?”

“The band made up their own language,” he shrugged. “It’s called Kobaïan, and most of the lyrics of their songs are in it.”

She stared at him in disbelief, her brain emitting nothing more than a _dot-dot-dot._ Eventually he rolled his eyes with a grin and pulled out his phone. The next thing Chloé knew, she was listening to a strange, almost creepy mixture of sounds that she supposed someone could call music if they squinted, but…with their ears. Then it got even weirder as the lyrics started.

The words weren’t even words. They were just _sounds_ carelessly mashed together. Then she realized the lyrics sounded a lot closer to her than they should have.

“Are you _singing along!?”_ She stared at the redhead in horror. He subsequently laughed a loud, full laugh.

“I told you I know Kobaïan!” Her mouth fell open as she continued to stare at him in horror. “It’s really cool, actually!” he continued. “Their songs tell a sci-fi story about a—,”

“I’m sorry, a _sci-fi story?”_

“Yes! A sci-fi story about a planet called Kobaïa where—,”

_“Oh my goodness.”_

“What?” he asked, laughing as he changed the song to some relaxing piano music instead.

She stared at him blankly for a few moments before eventually saying, “I stand by my previous decisions to make fun of you.”

“What??” he exclaimed, smiling. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve reached a level of nerd that I didn’t even realize was possible.”

He erupted in a fit of laughter and she couldn’t help but laugh herself as she shook her head. “Yeah, okay,” he said between giggles, “that’s fair.”

That was when she realized that his smile was 100% back to full capacity, and the warmest of smiles crept along her lips. His eyes came back to hers as his giggles settled down, and his smile shifted into a different one—the one with that…something—as he saw her. “What?”

She shook her head, still smiling. “Nothing. It’s your turn.”

* * *

“All I’m saying is that she can do better!”

“What do you have against Chat Noir??”

“Have you heard his puns!? _Ugh!”_

“Adrien makes ridiculous puns too!”

“And they’re annoying when he does it too! Look,” Chloé held her hand up in the small space between them, effectively silencing whatever comeback was on his tongue, “regardless of how annoying Chat Noir is, Ladybug is _literal perfection. No one_ is good enough for her.”

Nathaniel sighed dramatically and shook his head, as if ashamed of her, but he was smiling nonetheless. “I suppose I can’t deny that.”

“Exactly. Okay, your turn.”

Nathaniel hummed, drumming his fingers on her leg as he thought. Through the various gradual shifting of body positions, the two had ended up in such a formation that Chloé’s legs lay across his. Meanwhile, he had one leg over the edge of the couch, and one folded underneath him, allowing him to mostly face her as they talked. This, however, left her legs as the only natural resting place for his right hand while his left lay across the back of the couch, where his fingers idly brushed the strands of her hair that were caught there. Neither of them had really paid their positions much attention though, and if she thought back on it, she wasn’t sure she would be able to explain how they had ended up like that.

“Okay so, speaking of Adrien. Do you still have a crush on him?”

If she had been drinking water, she would have spit it out. _“No,”_ she scoffed. “That boy may be pretty as all hell, but the puns are just too much.” She rested her head against the back of the couch next to her, beginning to feel the effects of staying up later than usual. “What about you?”

“You’re asking if _I_ have a crush on Adrien?”

“Don’t try to deny that you at least did at some point. Is that who the portrait was earlier?” she poked. He rolled his eyes and smiled, eliciting an antagonistic giggle out of her.

“Adrien _is_ beautiful, and I definitely had a thing for him at some point, but no, I don’t have a crush on him. He and Marinette are too cute.”

Chloé immediately groaned. “Ugh, I _know!_ Back when they happened I wanted to hate it _so badly_ but I just _couldn’t_.” She sighed. “I have to admit, they’re an even better power couple than Adrien and I would have been.”

Nathaniel chuckled. “Seriously though. A fashion designer and a model. Those two were made for each other.”

She sighed contentedly. She wasn’t _tired_ per say, like she wouldn’t be falling asleep any time soon, but it _was_ late for her. Rather than making her tired, that seemed to make her relaxed. Especially mixed with the soothing sounds of the rain outside and the warmth radiating from of Nathaniel’s body and hands. She felt wonderfully comfortable and at ease in that moment with him.

“So when Adrinette happened, did you also let go of your crush on Marinette?”

She sighed overdramatically. “Yep. That single day destroyed the two biggest crushes of my life.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t deny that you had a crush on her,” he remarked. Somewhere in the back of her mind, Chloé registered that he was stroking his thumb over her jeans, seemingly in a mindless manner.

She huffed a small laugh. “Please. I think everyone knew that just as well as they knew you had red hair.”

He chuckled. “True. Your turn.” She leveled her gaze with him, and he smiled suspiciously. “What?”

“Really though. Who was the portrait of?”

That was when time itself seemed to slow down. He didn’t respond. He just watched her, looking back and forth between her eyes as if assessing or thinking about…something.

Then he opened his mouth, but she never found out what he would have said, because the next second, their attention was drawn to the candle sputtering on the table next to them. They both looked and realized the wick was nearly at its end, drowning in what little wax was left liquefied around it. It flickered again.

Chloé reached out and took it, holding it between them as she settled back into place, back into his warmth.

“It’s going to die soon,” she said as she looked up at his face, now lit up in clear detail. He gazed back at her, his teal eyes quite possibly the warmest she’d ever seen them. They were so relaxed and gentle and…something.

He hadn’t said anything. But somehow, that didn’t strike her as odd in the slightest bit. They were silent, but comfortable. Just…looking at each other.

When the candle began to sputter again, she realized his face was closer than before. Was he leaning toward her? Or was she leaning toward him? Both?

Her eyes flicked to his lips as he came closer, almost as if by accident, and she quickly looked up at his eyes again. His beautiful, warm, almost smoldering teal eyes.

She watched the light flicker on his skin as the drowning flame gasped for air. It sputtered its last dying breaths as he glanced at her lips, and then—

Everything went dark.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cue slow burn puns


End file.
